


what we do is secret

by neroh



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Great Expectations Fusion, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mystery, Non-Canonical Character Death, Retelling as a thriller, Secret Societies, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London Symphony Cellist, Eggsy Unwin, is introduced to the secret gentleman's society, Kingsman, whose glittering benefits come at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly Bre, Mo, and Leah's fault. And I also blame 2Cellos and iTunes. 
> 
> The chapter titles come from the musical structure, [Sonata Form](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonata_form).
> 
> A score for this fic is located [here](http://8tracks.com/boldly/what-we-do-is-secret).

“Is that how you want it, plebe?” he snarls into his ear.

He sounds like the serpent enticing Eve, except Charlie is just a man with his cock in Eggsy’s arse. Fingers latch onto a fist full of his hair, pulling at it so he’s bent like an archer’s bow. Eggsy cries out at the bite while his hands scramble for the duvet. “I asked you a question,” Charlie hisses with a particularly devious snap of his hips. His cockhead slams into Eggsy’s prostate, leaving the younger man gasping for breath. “Is this how you want it? You enjoy it when I’m rough with you, don’t you? Fucking slut for cock, you are.”

How he is able to nod is beyond Eggsy’s comprehension. He knows his head bobs in reply to Charlie’s question—he feels the movement after all—even though he’s being shaken apart as the other man fucks him up the mattress. Charlie’s chest presses upon his back while other parts of him takes and takes. Eggsy feels the play of hard muscle brushing over his skin; fuck, he’s memorized it over the years.

Every part of Charlie has been burned into him, red hot and searing as it was the first time. Eggsy had been a virgin then, having not so much as kissed another person when this cold-eyed lad came charging into his life. Charlie Hesketh, the nephew of some important chap, was positively beautiful and worldly in his eyes. Anything was, as before university Eggsy never left the safe confines of Tremadog, a quiet village within the Welsh community of Porthmadog. He came there when he was a little one, fresh off the deaths of his parents and sent to live with his aunt and uncle.

While the town was largely unchanging, Eggsy was never meant to stay there forever. Thanks to an anonymous benefactor, he found himself at Royal College of Music studying and later caught in Charlie’s thrall as a second-year student.

As one of the students in the Physics and Music Performance program, Eggsy spent a good portion of his time at Imperial College, where Charlie was studying. He still remembers the day he first laid eyes on the other man who had been just a twenty-one-year-old boy then; rain was tapping against the windows of the practice room he had reserved for the afternoon. His cello leaned heavily against his body as he played U2 on the instrument, having grown tired of Chopin, Bach, or whatever classical nonsense the instructor ordered Eggsy to practice.

He hadn’t even heard the door open until a voice asked, “Is that U2?”

The baritone caused Eggsy to startle and a truly horrible screech to emit from the cello’s strings. Both boys winced at the sound and the younger of the two dared to look up at his audience. Eggsy gulped at the marble statue of a lad come to life; Charlie resembled the likes of Michelangelo’s _David_ from his perfectly sculpted cheeks (and body as Eggsy would come to find out) to his tousled chestnut hair.

He was extraordinary to Eggsy, even in those first moments. Having never had a boyfriend or girlfriend, he never knew what it was like to have his breath taken away until laying eyes on Charlie. There was something about him; something magical that made Eggsy want to obey every command he should give.

A charming grin curled upon his full lips as the silence grew between them. “So, was I right?”

“About what?” Eggsy felt his cheeks burning pink, embarrassed by his obvious gawking. Perhaps this stranger was used to it—how could he not be?

“The song you were playing,” Charlie casually mentioned as he dropped his backpack onto the floor. It landed with a thud, echoing across the barren walls of the room. “Was it ‘With or Without You’ by U2?”

Eggsy glanced down at his cello and the bow in his hand before nodding bashfully. “Um, yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, it was. You recognized it?”

Charlie stride over to him, pulling up a chair so he could sit across from Eggsy. “Well, obviously,” he teased as he made himself comfortable. “Heard you playing it as I was walking to the library. Hope you don’t me popping in, by the way.” He held out his hand while that grin made a reappearance. “Charlie Hesketh.”

Two words that changed Eggsy’s life as he took the other man’s hand and shook it. He gave himself over to Charlie without hesitation and let him into the deepest confines of himself.

For all he took, Charlie was still a mystery to Eggsy even now as they were drifting out of their twenties and closer to their thirties. That icy enigma with a beautiful face, calculating mind and disarming smile. A slick talker whose desires are to reduce Eggsy to a sobbing mess whenever Charlie fancies taking him to bed before discarding him as always.

And Eggsy lets him despite knowing how this game goes. He eats up the attention and the emotional battery that comes with it, then wallows when it’s over. Why he does this to himself is beyond him; it’s a vicious cycle of the worst sort.

The sting of teeth sinking into the tender skin of where his neck and shoulder meet brings Eggsy out of his musings with his orgasm on its heels. He screams until his throat is hoarse and his cum stains the duvet, leaving him dizzy. He’s vaguely aware of Charlie’s anticipatory grunts in his ear and the final thrust that makes red spots appear in his vision.

“Fuck,” Charlie rasps as he slips out of him. “Eggsy… _fuck_.”

Sweat and sex fill the air along with the scent of two different colognes; the one Eggsy picks up at the pharmacy and the expensive, designer brand his lover wears. Charlie’s arm moves over his slick back as he goes to lie next to him.

He closes his eyes, sighing deeply as the other lad removes the condom and makes himself comfortable. Eggsy listens to Charlie riffling through his trousers until he hears a carton being opened. “Don’t smoke in here,” he orders.

“Whatever,” Charlie says with a laugh. His speech is garbled by the cigarette between his lips like he’s some sort of rebel without a cause.

Eggsy sits up, plucking the thing from Charlie’s mouth and chucking it into the trash bin. “I’m serious, bruv,” he snaps at him. “Don’t want my entire flat smelling like your fucking cigarettes.”

“It’s never bothered you before,” his lover comments.

“It’s _always_ bothered me,” Eggsy fires back, glaring. Like sex, he knows how this will go. “Just…don’t do it anymore, yeah?”

Charlie rolls his gray-blue eyes and slumps down against one of the pillows. “Fine,” he huffs, jutting out his bottom lip. He is still nude, his cock soft and glistening between his thighs as he lies in Eggsy’s bed. “I remember when you used to be _fun_.” He turns to him as he says this, adding to the punch of his words.

“I remember when you used to be _nice_ ,” Eggsy fires back as he rolls out of bed. He reaches over to grab his underwear, heading towards the bathroom to wash up.

Charlie laughs. He’s careless with Eggsy’s feelings, as he’s always been. “I was _never_ nice, Unwin!”

He knows this, as he’s always known. How Charlie’s cruelty came as a surprise never ceases to amaze Eggsy; no one could be _that_ perfect. And yet, here he was standing in his bathroom, post-coital, with his lover relaxing in his bed. Eggsy should be doing other things tonight such as reading through the music for the latest concert series; anything to keep Charlie’s presence at bay.

Anything to keep him from getting hurt. _Again_.

He drops his underwear on the tile floor and goes to turn the knobs inside the shower stall. As Eggsy watches water trickling out, he promises himself not to be surprised when Charlie disappears for another undetermined amount of time—not to cry over the void he leaves behind.

Eggsy promises himself, but in the end, doesn’t succeed.


	2. exposition

Try as he might, he can never recall the night his parents died.

Save for flames licking at the starless sky, Eggsy only knows what he’s been told by his aunt and uncle or read in black text upon yellowing newspaper. The story is a sketchy one at best, hazily pieced together with maybes and half-baked theories thought up by the coppers at Scotland Yard.

A tragic accident, the investigators called it, and deemed Eggsy, only five years old at the time, a lucky young man. While his parents and all his worldly belongings, except for the teddy bear clutched to his chest, perished in the fire, he escaped. As he sat on a gurney in the A&E while doctors looked him over, Eggsy told the policewoman that an angel in black—a very tall man—picked him up and carried him out of the burning flat to the street below.

No one reported seeing a single thing, of course, nor could Eggsy describe him.

Even in the therapy sessions his aunt Helen, with the best intentions, had insisted on as a way to help him process what happened could not unlock what Eggsy might have seen that night. Except for orange-red flames swallowing everything around him until he found himself outside in the cold.

His tragedy followed him all the way to Tremadog, where he is still known as that poor Unwin boy. With all of his musical accomplishments, Eggsy can never escape this identifier when he does go home. There are the pitying looks, the uncomfortable questions, and the awkward words of comfort. The ‘your parents would be so proud’ or ‘you look just like your dad’ that seem to follow him all over town. It feels as if these people, all of them well-meaning, are unintentionally taunting Eggsy with memories he’ll never have or cannot recall.

He tries sometimes when he’s in bed and night is upon him. What Eggsy comes up with is just flashes—the scent of his mum’s perfume or burrowing into his dad’s chest while they read bedtime stories. Each one fades as quickly as they came, leaving him with unasked questions and even more unanswered. A burden that is his own because of circumstances beyond his control.

It’s gotten easier since he doesn’t have much of a reason to visit since his aunt passed away nearly five years ago and his relationship with his uncle practically nonexistent. Dean Baker, his mum’s older brother by nearly a decade; a man with a weathered face and beady blue eyes and gruff demeanor. While his uncle was never outright cruel to Eggsy, he made it very clear from the moment the young boy set foot inside of his home that he did not want or like children. He never tried to form a relationship with Eggsy, always preferring to be there but never present.

Even when a posh lawyer from London arrived at their home, announcing that a friend of Lee Unwin’s was to become Eggsy’s benefactor thus giving him all of the opportunities he could ever hope for; Dean stayed out of his reach.

While he has no connection to Dean, he’s the only family Eggsy has left. He thinks his parents and aunt would want him to keep in touch. So Eggsy phones him every so often just to check in on the old bastard and ventures home during the holidays out of obligation. The visits are stilted and uncomfortable, leaving both men relieved when Eggsy returns to London.

There had been a time when he tried explaining it to Charlie once, long ago when he made Eggsy laugh. Before he showed his true colors.

Winter was giving way to spring; the chill fought to linger on as they laid upon Eggsy’s bed. Sweat dried on their naked bodies, pressed together with Charlie’s flaccid cock nudging between his arse cheeks. “He’s just…” he whispered while staring off at the far corner of his room. “Uninterested, I guess.”

“Uninterested?” Charlie echoed, sounding unimpressed. He pulled Eggsy closer to nip the nape of his neck, chasing the scrape of teeth with the tip of his tongue. “Sounds like a jealous wanker to me. Are you sure you’re even related to him, an oaf like that?”

Eggsy chuckled, something he does often. “Fairly certain,” he replied. He pecked the fine hairs on Charlie’s arm, feeling them tickle his lips. “He’s my mum’s brother.”

“Doesn’t mean _she_ wasn’t adopted,” his lover countered. “Perhaps your grandparents were disappointed when he popped out.”

He made a disgusted sound. “I don’t want to think of my Nan popping anything out, bruv!” Eggsy whined as he turned over in Charlie’s arms, frowning. “Let alone my _uncle_. Shit’s just rank.”

“Probably making him seethe,” the other man told him, matter-of-factly. An easy grin appeared upon his mouth, widening it. “Talented, intelligent, handsome and with a benefactor to boot.” Charlie poked the neat nub of Eggsy’s nose. “And _me_ , of course.”

“Of course,” Eggsy agreed, returning his smile.

Charlie ducked down to kiss him, drawing his mouth open with seductive flicks of his tongue. Eggsy moaned, rutting against his lover, who laughed. “He wished he had your life,” Charlie whispers.

“I think he likes going down to the pub,” Eggsy mentioned.

“I like going down,” he said, his attention focused on Eggsy’s jaw. A hand trailed over the plane of the younger man’s stomach, teasing as it went. “On you, Unwin.”

It hurts to think of the times when Charlie was utterly enchanting. He knows what his sometimes lover is now—the type to reel someone in and spit them out. An apathetic, cold individual who leaves Eggsy frustrated. The signs of Charlie’s true colors were there, but he ignored them because he was in love.

Eggsy rolls his eyes at himself and the naivety he used to possess, wondering how he could have been so daft. At least it’s quiet inside the National Gallery and the hall he sits in. He can rest his hands between practices over at Barbican Centre, even if his mind still speeds on.

Three weeks have passed since Charlie blew in and out of his life, not that Eggsy has much time to dwell upon it. His mind is elsewhere, focusing on the upcoming season and perfecting each sheet of music until he can play them in his dreams. When he doesn’t have his bow in hand or isn’t sleeping, Eggsy is seated in a hall of no particular importance.

Today he sits in the company of Saint John the Baptist as he is beheaded, amongst other paintings. Eggsy stopped gazing upon it a while ago, allowing his thoughts to wonder. Despite some less than fortunate circumstances, he does have a lot to be grateful for.

He has his anonymous benefactor whose unlimited sources of money keeps Eggsy, well, _kept_. The lad doesn’t struggle nor does he want for any material needs. His cello lessons, instruments, their accessories, and repairs are paid for without question. The tuition for his education, covered, as well as the rent on his flat and the furniture inside it.

Eggsy keeps it a secret from most people, save for Roxy Morton, his best mate from university—and Charlie. Both are from the upper class of the United Kingdom and make no judgments of his strange lifestyle. He makes a decent living from the orchestra, which he squirrels away into his own savings account.

His peace is disturbed by the sound of expensive oxfords upon the gallery floors. They come closer, echoing from wall to wall until Eggsy feels the need to view the person who has interrupted his solitude.

Why Eggsy is surprised to find the man in the bespoke suit entering the hall is beyond him.

He’s seen or passed him by at least once or twice in the days he’s ventured here. The man is always dressed in a varying array of tailored clothing; today it’s fine pinstripes upon navy fabric with a red tie. His dark hair is beginning to form waves from getting caught in the rain, while the rest of him is impeccable. The same trench coat he wears is neatly folded over his arm and the briefcase he carries while his other hand holds an umbrella with a gleaming wooden handle.

Eggsy reckons he’s the type of bloke who knows he’s incredibly good looking and could have been on a BBC serial if he had the chops. A distant ache forms in his chest when he realizes that his dad would be this man’s age by now if fate hadn’t intervened.

“Afternoon,” the man greets in a very posh accent as he breezes by, offering an amiable grin. It’s the first time Eggsy has heard the man speak, and the sound of his voice does not surprise him.

He nods back, echoing the sentiments, and tracks the stranger as he ventures several more paces to an empty bench. When he sets down his briefcase, Eggsy is no longer entertained and decides to give Saint John the Baptist his undivided attention. As he settles back, his mobile vibrates in his pocket.

Eggsy pulls it out and with a roll of his eyes, finds he’s receiving a call from his conductor. “‘Lo,” he says, trying to keep his voice down.

The man is a musical genius, that’s for certain, but he’s also barking mad. Anything makes him lose his shit, _especially_ before the start of the season. It’s some days off, but nothing stops the hectic shrieking coming from his mobile speaker, something about the violinist and demanding to know where Eggsy is.

“I’m at the National Gallery,” he whispers, casting an apologetic glance at the stranger. “Why? Because we’re done with rehearsals for the day. Yes, I am quite aware that we’re seven days out…yeah, of course. Yes. Fine. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” The call ends and Eggsy swears under his breath as he pockets the mobile once again.

The stranger is looking at him in surprise when the lad gets to his feet. Eggsy grabs his jacket and throws it on. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. My boss…well, he’s a right arsehole.”

“No offense taken,” the older man replies. An empathetic grin appears, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Good luck.”

Eggsy waves carelessly as he leaves. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

When he comes back several days later, the stranger is already there and occupying Eggsy’s usual bench.

The man turns at the sound of his trainers squeaking on the floor and smiles. “You’re back,” he observes once Eggsy is close enough.

“Needed some quiet,” Eggsy tells him, shoving his tired hands into the pockets of his jacket. He smirks. “And to rest my brain.”

He watches as the stranger scoots over, offering him a seat with a graceful gesture of his hand. “This place is good as any,” the man replies. He’s without his briefcase, Eggsy notices. “I’ve always enjoyed the atmosphere of an art museum. The paintings speak volumes with their silence, don’t you agree?”

“Some, I suppose,” he answers as he leans back. “Vermeer, for certain. Da Vinci, Raphael, Titian…the usual crowd. Except for that Dutch Flower exhibition in the other hall.” Eggsy wrinkles his face in distaste. “Don’t even know what the fuck that’s about.”

The man laughs. “You have a point. Unlike the rest of the populous, neither of us are ones for tulips.”

“With all of the paintings in the world, they decide to curate one on _flowers_ ,” Eggsy complains. His eyes fall upon Saint John as he calmly awaits his end. “It’s fucking tragic is what it is!” he declares with a sense of irony.

“Are you an artist yourself?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “Nah,” he replies while he removes his hands from the pockets of his jacket to reveal calloused palms. “Cellist with the London Symphony Orchestra.” Eggsy gazes up to find the man staring at him, his expression unreadable. “It’s my second session.”

The stranger nods. “That’s quite an accomplishment for someone as young as you are. How long have you been playing the cello?”

“Since I was ten,” Eggsy tells him, folding his hands on his lap. “Started out banging on my aunt and uncle’s piano before I moved to the violin.”

A smile appears on the man’s face. “And then you discovered the cello.”

“Yeah. I can honestly say I never loved an instrument more than that; it’s my favorite sound.” Eggsy chuckles at the memory of him struggling with his first cello, a battered affair he found in his music teacher’s studio. The chipped wood and old strings. “Everyone back home thought I was barking mad because it’s…well… _massive_.”

“Back home?” the man asks.

Eggsy looks at him. “Wales,” he elaborates.

Something dawns on this man, whose eyebrows rise above the rim of his glasses. “Welsh,” he comments, much to the lad’s surprise. It must show on his face, for this stranger goes on to elaborate. “I heard you speaking it the other day. Before you left in a hurry.”

“Oh,” the lad murmurs. “Sometimes, I lapse into it without realizing.”

“No need to explain,” the man assures. A moment of silence passes before he leans in and asks, “What were you saying?”

Eggsy snorts. “You really want to know?” He smiles apologetically when the other man nods. “I was calling the conductor an arsehole, amongst other things.”

“Ah,” his acquaintance intones. A mobile’s text message alert goes off and he removes it from his suit jacket to which he glances at the screen. A frown purses his features. “It seems I must go.” The man stands, seemingly annoyed that their conversation must come to an end. “We will probably see each other again, so for now this is goodbye.”

Eggsy grins. “Until then, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” the man agrees before he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

They see each other over the course of several weeks and Eggsy begins to find himself looking forward to running into this stranger.

Their encounters are sporadic with the season beginning in the flurry it always does. His days and nights are a blur of the orchestra pit as the likes of Verdi and Debussy fill the Barbican or shuttered away in one of the practice rooms. When music isn’t drifting through his head or fingers, Eggsy is at his flat or in the company of Roxy, who has come back into town between seasons with the Vienna Philharmonic.

His best mate appears delicate like the violin she plays; people are quick to find that Roxy is anything but. As fiercely loyal as she is talented, she is protective of Eggsy and has an absolute loathing for Charlie. “He’s a knob head with no knob,” Roxy comments as they sit at a fish and chips stand, polishing off a plate of food between the two of them.

“A what?” Eggsy squawks, shooting her a dubious look. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

Roxy tucks a lock hair behind her hair with a shrug. “You know what else doesn’t make sense?” There’s a look about her that makes Eggsy realize he’s just walked into a room with a dirty bomb. “Why you keep going back every time he snaps his fingers.”

And there it is, exploding.

“Not every time,” Eggsy mumbles. He catches her raised brow and groans as he drops his forehead onto the pillow of his arms. “Yes. Fine,” he agrees. “Every _fucking_ time!”

Her cool hand pats the back of his neck. “Admitting there is a problem is the first step,” Roxy tells him before popping a chip into her mouth.

“This isn’t Alcoholics Anonymous, Rox,” Eggsy whines. He dares to look at her and is pleased to find that she doesn’t look smug.

His relationship with Charlie has always been a point of contention between them. She’s always been the one who has had to nurse Eggsy’s wounds when Charlie has smashed his heart into pieces and laughed at his pain. Roxy has strong feelings about how she thinks her friend deserves far better than what Charlie dangles in front of him.

There had been a point where Eggsy disagreed until he walked in on his boyfriend with a leggy Swedish blonde in his lap. He remembers that evening as if it just happened, even though several years have passed; Eggsy let himself into Charlie’s flat with the key he had been given and ventured towards the bedroom to drop off his things.

Upon removing his earbuds and opening the door, he heard the sound of a woman climaxing. For a brief moment, he thought Charlie was watching porn until he inhaled the very real scent of sex. Eggsy’s eyes flicked up to see the source of the noise, a woman with pale skin and soft curves that reminded him of a bass. Her blonde hair obscured her features and part of Charlie’s shoulder, where she’d buried her face.

The same place Eggsy had tucked his own face into, during and post-coital.

Over one creamy shoulder, his boyfriend’s clever mouth manipulated one of the blonde’s nipples like he does when he and Eggsy are in bed. His fingers were digging into the woman’s bum, helping her rhythm even as her cries tapered down to soft moans.

Eggsy watched, feeling both mesmerized and gutted. His limbs went cold when Charlie made eye contact, noticing how no apology reflected in those predatory irises. His boyfriend grinned into her breast, his tongue visible as it circled around a hardened nub, and nausea began to build Eggsy’s stomach.

Charlie detached with a loud pop. “Care to join us, Unwin?” he called across the room, amusement in his voice.

The blonde turned, revealing a lovely face that Eggsy would normally appreciate if she wasn’t fucking his boyfriend, and smiled.

“What do you think, Tilde?” Charlie inquired as he thrust into her, dislodging a whimper. “Impromptu threesome?”

This woman—Tilde, evidentally—inspected Eggsy with a critical eye before nodding in approval. “You can do it in the asshole,” she told him unabashedly, to which Charlie laughed.

“That is a generous offer, darling,” he said. “Isn’t it, Unwin?”

He fled, plain and simple, and later found himself in Roxy’s bathroom as he vomited into the toilet bowl while she pressed a cool cloth against his nape. Eggsy could hardly string two words together for he was sobbing so hard; eventually, he was able to tell her what transpired, and she cursed Charlie’s name.

Only days later Eggsy found himself sitting on a stage inside the Barbican. It was empty, save for the first row of seats where a panel of principals watched intently as the young man auditioned with a mournful adagio for strings by Samuel Barber. The music emitted from his cello soared inside of the theater, filling each crevice with his heartbreak and tears shed since that terrible night.

He hadn’t heard from Charlie and didn’t think he would, having been shoved out of his life just as quickly as he was brought in.

It’s no matter; Eggsy played on, putting everything he had into the instrument and its bow until he ran out of music. As the reverberations died and he lowered his hand, Eggsy caught movement in the farthest reaches of the theater, where Charlie sat in the shadows.

Their eyes met for what would be the last time in nearly a year before Charlie came crashing back into his life, and in the brief moment, Eggsy realized that his ex-boyfriend is oblivious to the pain he’d caused. The coldness of him seeped from his seat up to the stage, even as Charlie went to leave. Eggsy watched as he didn’t spare him another glance, exiting as quietly as he came.

“Mr. Unwin?” called one of the principals, Gazelle Soltani. Hidden under dark, blunt fringe are even darker eyes set against olive skin. She offered him a secretive smile that Eggsy likens to her trademark. “Welcome to LSO.”

Roxy nudges him with her elbow, making sharp contact with his side. “So when he calls you to grab a drink, what will you say?” she demands.

“Fuck, that hurt!” Eggsy complains as he rubs the residual pain.

“No,” Roxy deadpans. “First, I’m going to block his number on your phone because I _know_ you won’t do it yourself, and second, if he drops by, you will say ‘fuck off, Charlie.’ Now repeat with me…”

Eggsy groans, barely able to suppress an eye roll. “I am perfectly capable of saying no to him,” he counters.

“Like hell you are!” she argues. Poking him with her finger, Roxy frowns at him. “Now what do you say when that knobhead phones you?”

For a moment, he glares at her before huffing a sigh. “Fuck off, Charlie,” he repeats.

“With a bit more enthusiasm!”

“Fuck off, Charlie!” Eggsy shrieks, startling the owner of the stand. He apologizes profusely while Roxy collapses in a fit of laughter, the utterly useless berk she is. Beet red and cheeks burning, Eggsy leaves their half-eaten meal and a tenner before dragging her away. “You are a right twat, you know that?”

Roxy wipes her lash line with her sleeve. “Indeed I do,” she giggles. Even in her state, she manages to sling an arm over Eggsy’s shoulder to pull him close. “Admit that it felt good.”

“Had I not banned us for life from the best fish and chips vendor, yes, it would have,” Eggsy replies dourly.

“We’ll find another,” Roxy assures. “Now, where do we go next?”

They wander aimlessly, trying to think of what to do on a Wednesday afternoon. A film is out of the question because the day is far too lovely to be secluded inside. Arms linked, Eggsy and Roxy continue their quest for entertainment until they end up at the steps of the National Gallery.

“I suppose this could be fun,” Roxy says, sounding a bit unsure as they walk through the halls. “Perhaps after we could head over to Covent Garden.”

Eggsy shrugs in response. His feet carry him to his usual hiding spot while his mind absently wonders if the stranger will be here today. He hasn’t mentioned him to Roxy, mostly because there’s nothing to share. This man and Eggsy are limited to too-short interactions before one of them are whisked away by work or something else.

“Is this where you hide?” Roxy inquires as they step into the quiet hall.

A few patrons wander about, murmuring to themselves as they dart from one painting to the next.

“Pretty much,” Eggsy tells her as he leads her to his bench. It’s empty, which, while not surprising, leaves him feeling rather disappointed. “Like to come here and sit in the quiet,” he explains.

Roxy removes her jacket, nodding in agreement. “There’s a cafe near the center,” she says, “that I go to when I want to be left alone. I think they’re starting to reserve my table for me.”

Eggsy chuckles as he takes a seat. “Give me a few more weeks and I’m certain I’ll be on a first name basis with the guards.”

“Oh no!” Roxy giggles as she gently nudges him. “What a pair we make.”

They continue their conversation, which thankfully is free of any mention of Charlie. Between their plans for Eggsy to visit Vienna and how Roxy’s mum wants him to come over for dinner, footsteps begin to echo through the hall.

He turns out of habit and finds the stranger approaching them as he adjusts his cufflink. It seems that he’s aware of Eggsy’s stare and raises his eyes to look back. He must notice Roxy sitting beside Eggsy, for his pleased expression falls to one of questioning and disappointment.

“Do you know him?” Roxy whispers.

Eggsy shrugs again. “Kind of,” he replies as he watches the man bypasses the bench for another one several paces away. “He comes here a lot, sometimes we chat.”

“Oh,” she says, watching as the stranger takes a seat. Turning back to Eggsy, Roxy asks, “What’s his name then?”

“Don’t know,” he admits, watching as his best mate glares at him. Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Eggsy shakes his head. “It’s not like that, Rox!”

She scoffs in disbelief. “Well it might not be like that for _you_ , but it certainly is for him,” Roxy observes as she rolls her eyes. “Honestly, has the knob head screwed you up so badly that you can’t even tell when another person shows interest?”

“Oi!” Eggsy hisses. “He’s not interested. Probably has a wife and kids back home.”

Roxy shakes her head. “Doubt it. There’s no wedding band on his finger nor any evidence of one.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like jewelry.”

“Or maybe he’s single and wants to ask you out for a cuppa but he’s too shy,” Roxy suggests.

Eggsy scowls at her. “He’s not interested.”

“Right,” she sighs. “Since when were you an expert on relationships?”

“Low blow, Rox,” he mutters, turning to the man. He’s on his mobile, pressing the device against his cheek as he stands. Eggsy follows his retreat as his nameless acquaintance leaves, oblivious to the younger man’s stare.

Roxy flicks his earlobe. “Probably thinks you’re straight.”

Eggsy darts his head away from her to rub the sting away. “He probably doesn’t even care.”

 

* * *

 

Nearly three weeks pass before Eggsy sees the stranger again.

In those days his life is a blur of musical notes, sheets, tuning his cello, and the exhausting pull of sleep once he’s finally at home. Eggsy wakes the next morning, always far too soon, to do it all over again. He doesn’t have enough time to think about Roxy’s words because she’s most definitely wrong about this man.

He’s far too posh to even pay much attention to Eggsy, other than polite conversation as they are the only ones in the hall. He has his fancy suits and probably even more fanciful life once he leaves the confines of the gallery.

And Eggsy is, well…

He’s a well-contained head case.

The day he finally sees the man again and officially makes his acquaintance, there is a murder in Hyde Park, a gruesome one at that. Something to do with a posh bloke being garroted, nearly decapitated, say the newspaper reports.

“Ah,” the stranger greets, startling him out of his head. A smile warms his face when Eggsy looks at him. “You are here.”

Eggsy nods. “And you’re back,” he says as the man sits down beside him, “with a tan, too. Did you go on holiday?”

The man glances down at his hands where the sun has turned its attention and given him a healthy glow. “So I have,” he replies. “And something like that—mostly for business, I’m afraid.” He looks around the hall as if he’s searching for someone. “Your girlfriend isn’t with you?”

“Girlfriend?” Eggsy questions.

“That young lady I saw you with the last time I was here,” the stranger elaborates.

He blinks, a bit stunned. “You mean Roxy?” Eggsy croaks, mentally kicking himself, because fuck if Roxy isn’t _always_ right. Shaking his head, he chuckles. “Nah, she’s not my girlfriend. Just a mate; my best mate.”

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to make such an assumption,” his acquaintance says. He extends his hand for Eggsy to shake. “It’s about time we properly introduce ourselves; Harry Hart.”

He smiles as he clasps the man’s—Harry—hand. It’s calloused like his own and cool to the touch from the late autumn chill. “Gary Unwin,” he replies. “Most people call me Eggsy.”

“Unwin?” Harry echoes, his brows knitted together in thought. “That’s not a name you hear every day. You wouldn’t be related to Lee Unwin, would you?”

Eggsy feels the familiar pang of discomfort starting to form in his stomach. “I’m his son,” he says quietly.

“I thought so,” the man replies with a dimpled grin. “You look a lot like him. He and I were in the Marines together; tell me, how is he doing these days?”

He breathes through his nose, hating himself for ruining Harry’s day with the news he’s about to reveal. “He died,” Eggsy stammers as his cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment. A gasp emits from the other man’s lips, and he winces. “About seventeen years ago. He and my mum…it was a fire.”

“Dear God,” Harry whispers, turning away to stare at the wall. He spares Eggsy a glance, revealing the haunted expression that’s washed over his face. “I had no idea.”

Eggsy fidgets nervously, toying with the frayed edges of his jumper. “It’s fine,” he assures after some uncomfortable silence. “Things like this happen, yeah?”

Soft, sad laughter comes from Harry as he shakes his head. “You are wise beyond your years, Eggsy,” he tells him.

“Depends on who you’re asking,” the young man teases.

“Well then,” Harry states, “there’s a pub not far from here if you’d like to join me. I could share some memorable stories about your father.”

The idea of hearing about his dad, a man he barely remembers, is enough for Eggsy agree to go with him. True to his word, Harry leads him to Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden. The walk over is filled with how the older man first met Lee and describing what he had been like at Eggsy’s age. It’s strange to listen to this perfect stranger tell him with such certainty; his aunt never spoke of his dad, nor his uncle. They hardly mentioned his mum and whatever he learned was scant at best.

During their travels to the pub, he learns that Harry is a barrister.

“So before then, you were in the marines with my dad,” Eggsy pieces together as they sit down in a secluded booth. “Like one of those blokes on _J.A.G_?”

Harry chuckles. “Not quite,” he says. “An officer.”

“An officer?” the young man echoes, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t picture you taking orders.”

“You and my friend, Merlin, would get along famously,” Harry says with a laugh as he peruses the menu. His eyes flicker up, brightening as he smiles. “He could tell you about our days at Eton.”

Eggsy leans in. “So where were you posted? Iraq or something.”

“Sorry, Eggsy. Classified.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course it is,” he huffs just as they are joined by the waitress. She takes their drink orders—a Guinness for Harry and a Kipling for Eggsy—before sauntering off.

“I should tell you that your father saved my life,” the gentleman tells him. “That day, I missed something, and if it weren’t for his courage, my mistake would have cost the lives of every man present.”

Eggsy tilts his head. “He did?”

“Yes,” Harry replies. “Your father was a brave man; a good man. I think he would have been very proud of what you have accomplished.”

A flush spreads over his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says. “My aunt and uncle barely talked about him…or my mum, for that matter.” Eggsy shrugs in his seat. “The only photographs I have are what was in their house—everything of mine was destroyed in the fire. Except for my pajamas and the teddy I was carrying.”

The waitress comes with their drinks and sets them down before leaving again.

“It must have been horrific to live through such a traumatic event, especially being so young,” Harry mentions once they’ve each taken a sip. “How old were you? Three or four?”

He shakes his head. “Five,” Eggsy answers. “And I don’t remember much of that night; probably a good thing, if you think about it. Could have gone mental if I had.”

“Mhm,” Harry intones while he watches Eggsy over the rim of his glass as they drink. “So tell me about growing up in Wales.”

“Not much to tell,” he says. “Was raised in Tremadog right off the bay. It’s this tiny village where everyone knows everyone else’s business. And they speak more Welsh than English.”

Harry grins at this. “Ah, hence your fluency.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees. He traces the circumference of his mug with his fingertip. “I know a little bit of French and Spanish because of compositions, of course,” he adds, raising his stare to look at Harry. “What about you?”

The older man sips on his drink when he nods in reply. “I am what you would call a polyglot,” he says. “I speak French, German, Mandarin, and Dari.”

“Do you collect them or something?” Eggsy stammers once he’s overcome his shock and shut his jaw.

Harry laughs. “Many of my clients are located over on the Continent or in Asia,” he admits.

“I’ve been to Vienna,” the younger man says. “Roxy plays for the Philharmonic and I go to visit her every so often.”

“Is she also a cellist?”

Eggsy tries to picture Roxy with anything but her violin and finds himself at a loss. “She’s a violinist and a bloody amazing one at that. She’s made people weep when she plays. If she wasn’t doing that, I’d say she has a bright future in being an interrogator.”

Conversation flows easily between them and before long, they are several rounds deep in drinking. Harry happens to glance at his wristwatch and raises his eyebrows when he realizes the late hour.

“Dear me,” he says ever so politely. “It’s nearly half nine and I have a meeting early in the morning.”

Eggsy wrinkles his nose. “Off to save the world, then?”

“Something like that,” Harry replies as he flags down the waitress. He notices Eggsy reaching for his wallet and holds up his hand. “Allow me. It’s the least I could do for monopolizing your time.”

Eggsy snorts as the older man passes his credit card to the woman who comes to their table. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have had another night alone in my flat.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harry tells him. “Perhaps we shall do it again?”

“I’d like that,” Eggsy says.

Once the bill has been paid and they’ve gone out into the night, Harry reaches into his wallet to remove a business card before handing it to Eggsy. “Send me a text message once you’ve returned home,” he comments, watching as the younger man pockets it. “That way I’ll have your number and know that you’ve made it back in one piece.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, bruv,” Eggsy chuckles as he uses his mobile to call for a driver.

The corners of Harry’s eyes crinkle. “I always worry,” he says as he extends his hand. “It was a pleasure having a drink with you, Eggsy. I hope we do this again—sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah, it was fun,” the younger man replies as his fingers touch Harry’s.

“And you _will_ message me when you arrive home,” Harry adds, giving him a pointed look.

Eggsy salutes him as the car pulls up. “Yes sir,” he teases. “See you, Harry!”

 

* * *

 

It’s not the last time he sees Harry Hart.

Over the next few weeks, they meet for a meal here, some drinks there; whenever either of them has the time. Harry is an interesting character—cultured in a way that Eggsy’s only seen in films or BBC serials, acutely intelligent, and a lover of obscure factoids. The man is endlessly fascinating in Eggsy’s eyes, thus making their outings together quite enjoyable.

“Has he hauled you to bed yet?” Roxy inquires over one of their twice-weekly phone calls.

Eggsy is glad that he lives alone as she is on speaker phone while he tunes his cello. He rolls his eyes and groans. “It’s not like that, Rox.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” she argues. “I saw how he looked at you when he thought I was your girlfriend; the man is besotted!”

He glares at his mobile. “You’ve been watching _Pride and Prejudice_ again, haven’t you?”

“No, but unlike _you_ , I use my eyes,” Roxy snaps back. She makes a disgusted sound. “Honestly, does the man have to walk around with a neon sign to tell you he’s interested?”

“No, because he’s _not_ ,” Eggsy retorts. Silence falls over their conversation, as bloody deafening as a military initiative. He can feel his best mate’s seething annoyance despite the hundreds of kilometers and several bodies of water between them. Sighing, Eggsy sets his cello down and goes to stand over his mobile. “He’s not, Rox. I swear to you!”

She isn’t taking no for an answer. “I think you’re wrong.”

“You also fancy the bloke from _Doctor Who_ , so whatever you tell me is rubbish,” Eggsy snaps.

Roxy is probably rolling her eyes now. “Yet you always end up taking my advice,” she says over the sound of his mobile receiving a text message.

Eggsy taps on the touch screen and grins almost immediately; it’s a dinner invitation from Harry for tonight which he happily accepts. _Semi-formal wear is most appropriate_ , the reply reads. _A suit would work. I’ll send a driver to come fetch you. Text me your address._

As he types out a response, Eggsy remembers he’s on a call with Roxy. “Hey Rox, I’ve got to go,” he says hurriedly.

“What? Why?” she demands.

“Harry’s invited me to dinner and I need to clean up before I go,” Eggsy tells her. “And don’t say _anything_ about it, okay?”

Roxy snickers. “I haven’t said a word,” she says innocently. “Have fun and remember to use protection.”

“Ugh!” he exclaims as he ends the call and leaves the mobile on the bed for the bathroom. Eggsy will fully admit that Harry is a fit chap and quite possibly out of his league. His new friend has never given any sort of indication that his feelings are less than platonic, and he seems like the such of bloke who is very direct.

Once he’s showered and groomed himself, Eggsy pulls out the black suit Roxy made him purchase. “All you have are tuxedos,” she had complained before dragging him out for a fitting. The tailored outfit is classically shaped and works for semi-formal engages such as weddings or galas…or a fancy dinner.

One crisp white dress shirt and black tie with silver dots later, Eggsy is tying his oxfords when his phone begins to ring. It’s the driver announcing his arrival downstairs. Grabbing the coat he wears to the symphony and his belongings, the young man goes to meet him and wonders what he’s signed himself up for.

 

* * *

 

He expected a restaurant, not a mansion located in bloody Hertfordshire!

Eggsy stares out the tinted windows of the town car, his mouth agape as the structure comes into view. Its neo-Palladian towers coil into the evening sky, illuminated by strategic lighting placement. “Where the fuck are we?” he asks the driver.

“Nearly twenty kilometers outside London, sir,” the man replies. The answer is secretive and well-rehearsed as if Eggsy is about to be sacrificed by a Satanic cult.

He has half a mind to phone the police and report a kidnapping when the wrought iron gates open to let the car pass through. The stunning facade comes into view with Harry standing at the bottom of marble steps, allowing Eggsy to breathe a bit easier. Through the darkened glass, he catches the older man’s pleased grin as he goes to open the back door.

“Good evening,” Harry greets as he steps aside. “I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

Eggsy sides out of the car, straightening his coat as he observes his surroundings. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Wrotham Park,” his friend says. His eyes roam over the younger man, taking in Eggsy wearing something other than jeans and a jumper. “You look…”

He panics, wondering if he’s too undone. “Is it too casual?”

“No,” Harry assures, meeting his stare. “You clean up well, young man.”

Eggsy lets out a sigh of relief as he follows Harry up the steps. “All I have are tuxedos and this,” he explains quietly. They are approached by a servant, who takes their coats. “So what is this place?”

“What if I told you I am about to offer you a once in a lifetime opportunity?” Harry mentions as they continue on.

He raises a brow. “I’d say so long as it doesn’t involve human or animal sacrifice, I would ask you to tell me more.”

Harry laughs as they come to a closed door. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving an old-fashioned key. “No,” he says, holding the object to the dim light. Harry looks at the younger man, his warm brown eyes sparkling from behind his glasses. “How would you like to become a Kingsman, Eggsy?”


	3. development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attempted sexual assault and abusive relationship depictions are in this chapter. Please read advise.

“Since 1849, the Kingsman Society has been home to the world’s most powerful individuals,” Harry explains as he leads Eggsy through a series of corridors.

The walls are adorned with honest to god painted portraits of past members; the kind where the subject—all men, of course—has to sit for hours while the artist works. Eggsy marvels at them as they walk, wondering what these members were like in their lifetimes. “Bloody hell,” he intones as he recognizes one of them. “Is that Winston Churchill?”

“Indeed it is,” Harry answers. “By 1919, a great number of them had lost their heirs to World War I. This meant a lot of money that would go uninherited and a lot of powerful men with a desire to bring others into their inner circle.” They come upon another door and a digital scanner next to it. Flashing a grin, the older man opens the glass-enclosed box and places his hand upon it. It lights up green after a few moments, followed by the door opening to a grand ballroom.

There are others inside, each of them dressed in tailored suits as they mingle with food or drink in their hands. A few have cigars hanging from their lips, laughing at some joke the other made. The scene reminds Eggsy of what Charlie described his upbringing to be like—the men secluded in a smoked filled library or study while the women gossiped in the parlor.

“Our founders realized they could channel that wealth and influence for the greater good of others. Thus our venture began,” Harry concludes.

Eggsy feels out of place standing amongst these men. They come from families with money and have lived a life filled with luxury. While he has a benefactor, he realizes the kindness of this unknown person could be revoked at any time and leave him utterly fucked. “So why am I here then?” he asks, wrinkling his brows.

“Kingsman is a very exclusive society, as you probably have figured out,” Harry says as a waiter comes by with a tray of champagne flutes. He takes two, handing one of them to Eggsy. “Membership only opens when one of us has died.”

The younger man makes a face. “That’s morbid.”

“Yes, well...” Harry agrees.

“And you haven’t really answered my question,” Eggsy tells him as he lifts the flute to his mouth. The champagne is good—neither too sweet or too dry—and bubbles upon his tongue. “Why am I here?”

The gentleman shifts closer to him. “I would like to propose you as a candidate for…consideration.”

“Consideration?” he balks, staring at Harry with wide eyes. Eggsy feels the blood draining from his face, or perhaps it’s the champagne. “You ought to find another bloke. I’m not posh like everyone else in this room! Hell, I don’t even know the differences between wines other than red and white.”

Harry chuckles as his fingers curl around Eggsy’s elbow, pulling him closer. “Breeding and money have nothing to do with the makings of a gentleman, not as much as one would think. Intelligence, manners, confidence, integrity are a few traits that come to mind. Talents that are meant to be shared with the world are others.”

“You haven’t even heard me play,” Eggsy points out. “I could be crap for all you know!”

“Unlikely, my dear boy,” Harry replies. “You are the youngest cellist the London Symphony Orchestra has ever hired in all the years it has existed, not to mention that one of my fellow members told me that your solo from last season’s _La grand macabre_ reduced him to tears.”

He tries to contain his flustered state. “But Harry,” Eggsy stammers, “I’m not powerful…”

“But you _could_ be,” Harry states with a wink. “If you were given the resources and connections, you could rule the world of music. Head your own orchestra before you’re thirty-five and anywhere you wanted—Chicago, Berlin, San Francisco, Amsterdam, Vienna, and even right here in London. The world is yours for the taking, should you accept my offer of candidacy.”

Eggsy glances around them, feeling out of place in the decadence of his surroundings. This is the type of lifestyle that he always had within his reach through Charlie, Roxy, and some university mates whose families were loaded, but it was never his. It’s was just as well because Eggsy hasn’t been one to engage in frivolous behavior or fill his life with excess.  

He takes what he is given and never complains because he is luckier than most from Tremadog.

Harry watches him as he takes everything in before looking down into his champagne flute; he can feel the older man’s eyes on him. The warm brown irises that turn into spheres of amber when the sun shines directly on them or seem to melt when he laughs.

So what if Eggsy has a little bit of a crush on the bloke? He’s allowed to look and perhaps scope out his bum when Harry walks away from him.  

“Interested?” the gentleman inquires, his voice causing goosebumps to pimple under Eggsy’s clothing.

He finds himself raising his eyes from the flute in his hand to Harry, who looks as earnest as ever. “You think I have anything to lose?”

A pleased smile forms on the other man’s lips. “Come with me,” he beckons, taking Eggsy’s drink and setting it on a table along with his own.

Eggsy finds himself being led into another room that resembles a posh conference. Other men are gathered there in the company of what Eggsy deems to be other candidates who are around his age, more or less. It’s clear he’s the youngest of the lot and by far the only charity case, judging by the hush that falls upon the room when he and Harry enter.

Each pair of eyes judge him; from his suit ( _Not bespoke_ , Eggsy images them thinking) to how he follows Harry like a lost dog. They know this newcomer is not from money.

“Harry, late as usual,” an older man, who was previously engaged in conversation, says. He holds a glass of brandy and staring curiously at Eggsy when he sees him. The man, most likely in his late seventies, has the coldest pair of eyes the young man has ever seen. Like a predator or weapon—a steely blue hidden behind manners, pedigree, and glasses. He turns back to Harry. “And who might this be?”

The warm press of a hand seeps through the material of Eggsy’s suit as he’s gently nudged forward. “Gary Unwin,” Harry answers. “My candidate.”

“Eggsy,” he mutters as he shakes the old man’s hand. “Most people call me Eggsy.”

The other man raises his white eyebrows as he lets go of Eggsy’s grasp. “Unwin, you say?”

“He is a cellist with the London Symphony Orchestra, Chester,” Harry tells the man. This Chester person who looks upon him like he’s dung. “Mr. King is the head of our society.”

“Is he now?” Chester replies, sparing Eggsy a glance. “That is very impressive, Mr. Unwin.”

Eggsy nods despite the insincerity in the older man’s tone. “Thank you, sir.” He feels the pull of Harry tugging him by the elbow to fall in line with the others.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Chester greets with a smile. “Your candidates are about to embark on what is probably the most important job interview of their lives. Perhaps the world. One of you and only one of you will become the next member of our prestigious society.”

The rest of it is pomp and circumstance that leaves Eggsy in dire need of something harder than champagne. As he and Harry shuffle out of the room, he thinks on what Chester had told his audience—four tests will be administered and each one will result in others moving onto the next task while the unlucky do not. The old man is vague about what these tests will entail, but he promises rather darkly that no one will come to any bodily harm.

It’s all taken very seriously, including the part where Eggsy is required to sign a confidentiality agreement in blood; quite literally.

With a grim expression, Harry had taken a dagger to the delicate skin of Eggsy’s palm and scored it. As blood pooled up the surface, they exchanged a look of silent apology before Harry presses Eggsy’s hand to the contract.

“Scotch?” Harry asks they walk towards a fancy bar.

“Please,” Eggsy replies. His palm still aches from the cut, even though his now mentor tried not to go too deep. Besides, it could be worse: he could have been forced to fill out an identification card to go with a matching (and empty) body bag. He leans against the bar, observing as Harry orders their drinks. “Are you sure there’s no human sacrifice involved?”

The corners of Harry’s lips twitch. “I am fairly certain,” he says as he passes a tumbler to the lad. They clink their glasses together. “Cheers.”

Eggsy appreciates the bite from his beverage; it calms his nerves and blankets his racing thoughts. “What happens now?” he asks.

“Now,” Harry begins to say as he waves, “we sit and have our drinks with Merlin. Come along.”

Merlin, as it turns out, is a tall, slightly imposing man with no hair upon his head and glasses. Rather than a blue robe and funny hat like in the Disney film, he wears a suit like the others—sans tie—and looks dourly upon Harry’s arrival. “What are you up to now?” he asks as he brings his drink to his lips, Scottish brogue curling upon his words.

“ _Hamish Greaves_ , meet Gary Unwin,” the other man introduces, gesturing to Eggsy. “Otherwise known as Eggsy.”

He has a firm handshake. “I know who he is, you twit,” Merlin replies to Harry before turning his attention back to Eggsy. His features have softened, making him appear less annoyed by the company. “I recognize you from the LSO programme; your solo during _La grand macabre_ was quite moving.”

“Thank you, sir,” the lad says.

“Merlin is fine,” the Scottish man assures. “What brings you to our humble abode?”

Eggsy chuckles at his sarcasm. “I’m Harry’s candidate, even if he owes me dinner after this.”

“Candidate, hrm?” Merlin raises a brow as he gives his friend a pointed look. “Well, it would be nice to have a member who spoke of more than numbers, acquisitions, and how much money they have in the bank.”

He finds himself in a deep conversation with Merlin regarding his favorite musical period while Harry was wandered off. “Everyone and their bloody mum says Baroque,” Eggsy complains as a waiter brings them each another glass of scotch. “Like it’s supposed to make you seem worldly.”

“The Baroque Period produced some of the masters of classical music!” Merlin tells him. “Bach, Mozart…”

“Mozart was the Classical Period, bruv,” Eggsy gently corrects.

Merlin blinks. “He was?”

Eggsy nods, suppressing a snicker. “He was,” he says as Harry returns, crossing over the floor while straightening his suit jacket by the lapels. He appears rather annoyed by whatever pulled him away, though he contains himself well enough.  “Anyways,” Eggsy continues, “my favorite period is Modernist; I’m a sucker for Debussy.”

“What did I miss?” Harry asks as he comes back into the fold.

Merlin gestures to Eggsy with his glass. “It seems our young friend is a fan of the Modernist period in classical music, especially Debussy.”

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” Harry says after a pause. His lips quirk into a fond smile. “I am rather famished. Perhaps it’s time I take you to dinner as promised?”

Eggsy sighs with relief. “Thought you had forgotten,” he teases. He shakes hands with Merlin. “It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Likewise,” the other man agrees, giving him a friendly clap on the bicep. He motions towards Harry. “Don’t let this one get you into too much trouble, aye?”

He glances over at his mentor and nods. “Will do,” he promises before following Harry out of the mansion to an awaiting car. Once inside, he undoes the buttons of his suit jacket and relaxes into the backseat while the older man tells the driver where to go. “Didn’t expect something like that when you messaged.”

“Have to keep you on your toes,” Harry says with a grin. He studies Eggsy as they drive back into London. “How do you know Charlie Hesketh?”

Eggsy chokes on his own spit and coughs. “How do _you_ know Charlie?” he finally rasps.

“He is one of our members,” the older man replies, darkly.

“Oh, that’s just _fantastic_ ,” Eggsy grumbles. “He’s my ex-boyfriend…or whatever. Not entirely sure anymore, to be honest.”

Harry makes a sound of understanding. “Chester mentioned something to that effect. That’s where I was while you and Merlin were chatting; he was wondering what I was playing at by bringing you. Apparently having his nephew publicly engaging in a homosexual relationship displeased him. Those are the type of things that should remain private, according to him.”

“Ha!” the younger man barks. He rolls his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You certain it wasn’t my lack of pedigree that pissed him off?” Eggsy mutters in Welsh under his breath while his anger flares up in spurts. “I didn’t even know he existed until Charlie came barging in on my practice time and sat his arse down like he owned the place.” He glances at Harry until he can no longer bear to look into his dark eyes. “Hadn’t even been kissed before him; think Charlie got off on that. Being my first everything because I’d always remember him no matter how much I ended up hating him.”

Harry touches the top of Eggsy’s hand, running his thumb over his knuckles. “He never deserved you,” Harry tells him. “Not even for a moment.”

 

* * *

 

Eggsy is surprised to find that the tasks Chester mentioned are fairly mundane.

For all the secrecy he endured during the night he was proposed, he expected something more exciting than meet and greets with current members (“They are basically interviews,” Harry had explained. “To see if we like each other.”), history lessons on Kingsman, and aptitude tests. It leaves Eggsy feeling as if he’s back at school and being observed by his instructors. They are accommodating of his schedule with the symphony and send a car round to bring him to the mansion.

As time progresses, he notices that the pool of candidates grows smaller. It seems these tasks hold bearing on whether or not one continues on in the process. The smug little bastards—Nathaniel, Piers, and some twat named Hugo—who narrowed their eyes at him, well, a lot of them are gone.

It’s not just all history lessons and tests; Eggsy gets to spend more time in the company of Harry. No longer are they meeting at the National Gallery, but at other places where Harry gives him advice or gently chides his manners (“Manners maketh man, Eggsy,” he says quite often) or they just talk.

Eggsy realizes that his crush is lessening and becoming more romantic as he gets to know Harry and his quirks. The man’s fondness for antiques and the Golden Age of Cinema is endearing, as well as his obsession with the Sunday crossword. Eggsy finds himself wondering what it would be like to have Harry’s mouth on his own or to take him to bed and feel their bodies tangled up in each other.

He never wondered such things with Charlie, who just took and took before the thought entered Eggsy’s head. No, Harry would be courteous and ask him like a proper gentleman.

It must show on Eggsy’s face whenever he looks at Harry from across the dinner table, or perhaps he’s better at hiding his feelings than he reckoned.

He settles for what he’s given because he isn’t one to press his luck.

 

* * *

 

Charlie comes to disrupt his life the same night Eggsy is given his first _real_ task.  
  
He stands in front of a mirror while he fastens his bow tie while the player members of the symphony chatter around him. It’s the usual rattle and hum that goes on before they leave for the pit; nothing out of the ordinary even as one of the attendants brings in a rather large bouquet of peonies. The principals frequently receive flowers from loved ones or admirers, though those are brought to their private dressing rooms. Eggsy pays no mind as he straightens his bow tie and gives himself a final once-over before sitting down to put on his shoes.

“Eggsy,” the attendant says as she sets the peonies on his dressing table. “These came for you.”

He blinks up at her as a hush falls through the room. Even Gazelle, who gets bouquets by the truckloads, is staring at him. “Pardon? Are you sure?”

The attendant nods and then walks away, leaving Eggsy confused as he forgets his laces and fetches the card tucked within the fragrant petals. The arrangement is quite lovely and unexpected as not many people know that he prefers peonies over roses, save for Roxy and Harry. He recalls their discussion over flowers one evening while they were out at a pub and he shared the factoid.

Unsurprisingly, he finds Harry’s graceful handwriting  He is unsurprised to find his mentor’s graceful handwriting inside of the card. _For good omens and luck. You will perform most admirably this evening. Best, Harry,_ it reads. _Postscript_ — _I’ll be watching from the third row._

Eggsy makes a strangled sound that ends up caught in his throat. He isn’t one to shy away from playing, after all, it’s his bloody job, but to play in front of Harry of all people! Eggsy sets the card down as Gazelle comes to inspect his flowers. “Well fuck if this isn’t a kick in the bollocks,” he grumbles.

“Oh?” she inquires as she plucks the card from his fingers. Amusement warms her features once she’s read it and hands it back. “An admirer?”

“Something like that,” Eggsy tells her while gazing at the peonies. “Except I’m the only one doing the admiring.”

Gazelle chuckles. “Perhaps this Harry fellow is trying to tell you something.” She places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat. “Also, I’m moving you to the second seat.”

“Wait, what?” Eggsy exclaims, looking up at Gazelle with wide eyes. “Are you taking the piss?” When she shakes her head, he swallows down a string of curses. “What about Amelia? Where the _hell_ is she?”

The principal cellist puts both hands on his shoulders and stares right at him; there is something rather calming (and at times, terrifying) about Gazelle’s dark eyes. “Eggsy,” she says, “breathe.” When he does, she smiles and nudges his cheek. “Amelia had some sort of emergency; she wouldn’t tell me much other than she couldn’t go on this evening. You’re her understudy…”

“Fuck me, this is like one of those after-school specials,” he balks. “Or worse… _Skins_!”

“Except you’ve never touched drugs, love,” Gazelle reminds him as she goes to fix his tie. “We go on in twenty.” She begins to walk away, her gown swaying with every movement even as she turns around. “And don’t forget your laces.”

He glances down and finds them still untied. “Thanks,” Eggsy mumbles. His words are lost as he bends down to ensure that he doesn’t trip over them. Once his shoes are situated, he stands to pull on his tuxedo jacket when he ponders Harry’s card.

 _Good omens and luck_ , it had read. Written with such surety and praise and yet…

And yet.

“Shit,” Eggsy whispers as he grabs his mobile. An icy cold sensation overcomes his body, bringing him back to moments before his audition for the Royal College of Music and the terror he felt then. It’s nothing compared to this—the realization that Kingsman’s reach is far beyond mansions, history lessons, and connections.

In a secluded corner, he dials Harry’s number while his heart pounds inside of his chest cavity. “What did you do?” he hisses into the receiver the second Harry picks up. “Did you hurt Amelia?”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Harry asks, his voice barely audible over the sound of the music hall.

“The second seat cellist can’t make it,” Eggsy barks. “Amelia has _never_ missed a show! What did you do to her?”

The noise on the other end of the call dies down as Harry finds a quiet place. “I can assure you that Ms. Fontaine has come to no harm,” he replies.

“Holy shit!” Eggsy hisses, strangled. His entire body begins to tremble with nerves. “What the _fuck_ , Harry? What the hell are you playing at; fucking with someone’s life like this?” Eggsy cards his fingers through his hair before palming his face. “Shit, bugger, fuck!”

Harry lets him curse, never correcting him for using such language. “Are you done?” he inquires after a while.

“I’m not sure,” Eggsy whispers.

The other man sighs. “My dear boy, listen to me,” Harry says. “This is a test to see how well you perform under pressure.”

“What about the other shit I had to do? The meetings, the history lessons…”

“Also tests,” Harry tells him. “You have made it to the final five candidates, Eggsy. The stakes are much higher than before and there are many people who want to see you fail.”

Eggsy frowns. “Chester, you mean,” he mumbles.

“I _know_ you will rise to the occasion,” Harry assures, kindly. “And I will be there the entire time. After you’ve passed, I will take you out for a late meal and we can discuss what to expect in the future.”

Eggsy exhales deeply, feeling the rush of tension leaving his body. “You promise?” He hears Gazelle calling his name in the distance. “Harry, you promise, yeah?”

“Of course, dear boy,” Harry says like a prayer.

He hangs up just as Gazelle finds him. “There you are,” she says, motioning for Eggsy to follow her. “Thought I lost you as well; come along.”

By the time he arrives in the pit, Eggsy’s palms are sweating like the first time he made this trek. He recalls the butterflies in his stomach and how his bow tie felt too tight as he filed in behind his section. Everything he had done during his short life had prepared him for that moment and now this one, apparently.

Even if he is being thrust into the spotlight, Eggsy must have his wits about him.

His cello has been moved next to Gazelle’s and sits in the low light waiting for his arrival. Above the pit is the audience filing into their seats, murmuring as they do. Somewhere Harry is there and waiting for the lights to go up so he can see Eggsy.

“It will be like your solo from last season,” Gazelle whispers as they take their seats, flashing him a calm smile.

Eggsy nods while he reaches for his bow and music sheets. “Except I was better prepared to make an arse out of myself,” he whispers back, turning to the first piece they will be performing tonight. His solo isn’t until before the first intermission.

“Unwin,” Gazelle says as she nudges him with her elbow. Her touch is light, as it always is, and he finds her name to be quite fitting. “You have this.”

He opens his mouth to reply when the lights come on and their conductor walks out like the pompous penguin he is. Eggsy and his principal share a final look of contempt before the show begins.

Tonight’s program is no different from any other, save for Amelia’s absence. It’s an ode to cinematic scores, ranging from Newman to Williams and Horner, right down to Zimmer, with a bit of Portman and Powell thrown in. Getting the conductor to even agree to such a thing was like pulling teeth, but in the end, the other principals won out.

So Eggsy spends the first half playing music from _James Bond, Star Wars, Willow_ and other films before he realizes his solo is within minutes of happening once the applause dies down. Swallowing, he turns his sheet music to one of his personal favorites, “Time” by Hans Zimmer.

As it goes, he is the sole musician playing the piece for nearly the entirety of it before the other strings and several flutists join in, save for a bass cello thumping, quietly accompanying him for effect. Eggsy hates everyone and everything in that moment because, _fuck_ , if he isn’t a ball of nerves. Perhaps he’ll have time to sneak out during intermission for a quick drink on the mezzanine level.

The conductor taps his podium, earning Eggsy’s undivided attention. He whispers a prayer in Welsh, hoping he doesn’t make an arse out of himself…or Harry, for that matter.

He begins to play, the notes soaring into the quiet theater as his bow dances over the cello strings. Eggsy’s hands move as they’ve always done—with ease and grace that no tutor could have ever taught him. One of his first instructors marveled at how Eggsy, then only eleven years old, played so fluidly.

“Like the cello was made for him,” the old man had told his aunt.

His family, what was left of it anyways, and friends thought Eggsy had been mad for wanting to try his hand at such a robust instrument. He had been a small lad before his growth spurt came and rapidly pushed him to his adult height. And the cello was massive, even the children’s one sent to him via his benefactor once word got back to them.

Still, the instrument enchanted Eggsy from the moment he laid eyes upon it and the sound emitted from it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It could be delicate, powerful, or foreboding. Whenever he played, Eggsy felt he could truly express himself through music notes and his fingers.

His fingers hold down the strings, caressing them as if they were Harry’s body. Eggsy wonders what his mentor thinks of all this, watching him play in front of so many people. Certainly, Harry must have thought him to be shy at their first meeting, but what did he think now?

Does he find it alluring to see Eggsy in his element, or is it just another Kingsman task he must oversee?

On cue, he stops playing as the theater falls into silence for a span of heartbeats. The flutists pick up the final stanza, hauntingly closing out the first act before the lights go down.

Harry finds him backstage during the intermission.

He doesn’t ask how Harry managed to sneak his way in. If anything, Eggsy has quickly learned that anything is possible with Kingsman and it’s best not to question it. Instead, he accepts the crushing hug Harry gives him, melting into the older man’s chest as it lingers. If he could, Eggsy would close his eyes and stay there until the world stopped.

Except he has the second half to play and Harry has his seat he paid for.

“Congratulations,” Harry tells him when they part. He is positively beaming with pride as he holds Eggsy at arm’s length. “Bloody well done!”

“Yeah?” Eggsy says, returning the other man’s smile. “You thought so?”

Harry slips his arm around Eggsy’s shoulder and guides him away from the crowd. “I am by no means an aficionado of classical music, but my dear boy, that was truly the most beautiful playing I have ever had the good fortune of witnessing. It was breathtaking; you had the entire theater in awe.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy replies, blushing furiously. “Does this mean I passed?”

Harry nods. “With flying colors,” he whispers into the shell of the lad’s ear. His breath tickles the invisible hairs on his tragus, sending a shiver down his spine. “I daresay, I am fairly certain I saw tears in Bors’ eyes.”

“Others are here?”

“Of course they are,” Harry says as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. He stares into Eggsy’s eyes, unable to conceal his dimpled grin. “I cannot tell you how proud I am, Eggsy.”

It’s then Eggsy realizes how close they’re standing together; so close he can make out the different shades of brown swirling within his irises. Bistre, umber, fallow, and sepia creating a masterpiece within those lovely spheres. He leans in, wondering what the artists whose paintings are hung in the National Gallery would make of Harry’s eyes and if they’d appreciate them as much as Eggsy.

Without another word, he surges forward and brushes his lips against Harry’s. It’s a tentative touch, something to test the waters while giving the other man room to step back. The smell of expensive cologne curls around him as Eggsy moves closer, reaching caress the back of his mentor’s head. Under his fingers is soft hair and warm skin as he traps Harry’s bottom lip between his own, sucking on it gently until Eggsy feels the other man’s posture stiffen against him.

Alarmed, he pulls back and awaits a sharp reprimand when he looks at Harry. Instead, his mentor stands there looking surprised by the turn of events. His lips are a lovely shade of dark pink and glistening under the lights as Harry goes to touch them.

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Eggsy begins to say, utterly panicked by what he’s done. “I didn’t…”

A hand goes to touch his skin, brushing a thumb over the ridge of Eggsy’s cheek. He closes his eyes at the caress, softly whimpering. “My darling boy,” Harry whispers—not dear, but _darling—_ as he trails his finger down to Eggsy’s upper lip. He sounds awed, wonderfully and deliriously awed. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Harry pulls him to his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist, and kisses him. _Really_ kisses him; the type of kiss that leaves Eggsy feeling like his legs are going to give out from under him. Like Harry is the only thing keeping him in this universe and on solid ground.

Eggsy parts his lips at the first touch of Harry’s tongue, groaning as gentle flicks and careful nips begin the exploration of his mouth. He curls his fingers into the other man’s tuxedo jacket as the taste of him seeps onto Eggsy’s tongue. Harry, like everything about him, is intoxicating and Eggsy wants more. Neither of them tries to be careful the second time as they surge deeper, harder; trying to consume what they can.

“There you are,” an amused voice that sounds a lot like Gazelle says. “I was looking all over for you!”

They pull apart slowly. When Eggsy turns, blinking like a man coming into the light for the first time, he stares at his principal in complete and utter confusion. The realization that he’s backstage snogging Harry and the second half of the show is going to begin soon follows. “Fuck me,” Eggsy groans as his cheeks start to burn.

“Hello,” Gazelle says to Harry without missing a beat. “I’m going to need him back for a bit if you don’t mind.”

Harry clears his throat and shakes his head, looking quite embarrassed about being found _in flagrante_. “Of course,” he replies. “Yes, of course.”

She looks at the two of men with that secretive smile of hers. “I’ll give you both a moment,” Gazelle tells them before walking away.

“Just my bloody luck,” Eggsy mutters as he straightens himself out. “Cockblocked by my own boss!”

He hears the older man’s chuckle. Harry tugs him into his embrace, carefully soothing Eggsy’s hair back in place with a smile. “Not entirely, darling,” he assures. “Why don’t we continue this discussion on our way to dinner? Once the symphony is over, of course.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy asks. “You mean it?”

“I do,” Harry tells him as he bestows a gentle peck on Eggsy’s brow. “Where should I meet you?”

He smiles into the gesture. “The stage door around back. I shouldn’t be long; just need to change and grab my things.”

“Then I’ll see you afterward,” Harry says before kissing Eggsy once more. It’s quick as neither of them wants to press his principal’s good humor and graces.

Eggsy walks away from Harry in a joyful daze and ignores the smirk on Gazelle’s face when he joins her and they return to their seats. He hears her say something, though the words are lost on him. “Huh?” the lad says.

“He’s a vast improvement from that other one,” Gazelle tells him, linking their arms. “You’ll have to tell me about him later.”

 

* * *

 

Eggsy usually tends to linger after a performance has come to an end.

He and his colleagues lounge in the backstage area, drinking from plastic cups filled with champagne, wine, or whatever happens to be around because of gifts being sent by donators. It’s a time to unwind before they all venture into the night and return to their homes. He enjoys those moments, to be able to laugh and talk with the people he sees day in and day out.

This evening, however, Eggsy finds himself in a rush as he’s meeting Harry and his driver. He already has shoved his bow tie and cummerbund into his bag and texted Harry to let him know he’s heading to their designated meeting spot. A reply comes, causing Eggsy to smile as he undoes the first two buttons of his dress shirt. He backs into the stage door, sighing with relief as a blast of cold air hits his body. It’s winter in London now, but after being cooped up in an orchestra pit, Eggsy needs something to cool his skin. Pocketing his mobile, he hears footsteps on concrete and looks up.

“Hello, stranger,” Charlie says with his standard calculating smile. His eyes roam over Eggsy’s body before he finally takes a step forward. “Fancy seeing you here, Unwin.”

He flinches at the smell of alcohol on his ex-boyfriend’s breath; that telling sourness of hard partying and debauchery. “I work here if you don’t remember,” Eggsy replies sharply. “Which you _clearly_ do.”

“Ah yes,” the other man states, glancing at the building. “My little cellist, making all the world weep at your song.”

“What do you want, Charlie?” he demands with a glare.

Charlie cocks a brow as if he’s trying to decide to be angry or amused. “I came to see you.” He reaches for Eggsy, hooking his fingers at the belt loops of the tuxedo pants. With a tug, Charlie pulls the younger man close and uses his height to his advantage. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure,” Eggsy mumbles as he holds his ex at arm’s length. He knows this game: the sweet words, the whispered endearments, the false promises, and the usual outcome. The one where he falls for it and takes Charlie to his flat, where the painful cycle repeats itself.

Except now he has no desire for any of it.

“I phoned you, you know,” Charlie tells him, pulling Eggsy closer until their bodies are touching. He can feel the other man’s erection through Charlie’s designer jeans pressing against his thigh. “You never returned any of my messages.”

He stiffens at the first touch of Charlie’s mouth against his neck. “That’s because I blocked your number,” he says, annoyed.

Charlie’s laughs shrilly. “Oh, you did?” he chuckles, humoring him. “You playing hard to get now, Unwin? Do you want me to beg for your arsehole? Is that why you came to the mansion? With Harry _fucking_ Hart.”

“No,” Eggsy hisses, pushing him away. He watches Charlie stumble a few steps back without losing that cold smile. “And it’s none of your fucking business about where _and_ who I was with!”

“Oh, the plebe’s grown some bollocks since I’ve been away,” Charlie mutters. He grabs Eggsy by the wrist and roughly pulls him forward, chafing the delicate skin as he licks his lips. “Do you want it rough now?”

He pries his ex-boyfriend’s hand off his limb. “I want you to go,” Eggsy snaps while giving the other lad a forceful shove. “Go on! Get out of here!”

“Eggsy,” Charlie says with a hint of confusion. “Come on. Let’s go grab a drink and catch up…”

He shakes his head. “I have plans,” Eggsy replies.

“Cancel them.”

“Charlie,” Eggsy groans. “This mess between us…it’s _over_. For good this time!” He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. “We can’t keep doing this.”

The other man tilts his head while his expression falls. “You’re just mad that I went off again…”

Eggsy shrugs in frustration. “I’m moving on, bruv,” he states as he grabs his things and goes to walk away. “I suggest you do the same.” He passes Charlie, bumping shoulders, and makes it two steps before he feels a hand on his shoulder.

The world spins, blurring until Charlie’s fist comes into view far too quickly for Eggsy’s reflexes to duck. His head snaps back as pain explodes beneath his eye, sending a concussion force through his body. He hasn’t even recovered when Charlie shoves him into the brick wall, slamming his already injured face into it. Stars, tens of millions of them, white out his vision as Eggsy cries out. Hands pull him to his feet, pushing his back into the wall. Another punch comes, this time aimed at his chin. His lip splits under the hard bones of Charlie’s knuckles, causing blood to begin trickling from it.

“ _You_ don’t get to tell _me_ when it’s over,” Charlie growls as he presses an arm over Eggsy’s throat while the other hand goes to undo his tuxedo pants. “ _I_ tell you when _I’m_ fucking done with _you_!”

He grunts, scrambling for the other man’s arm and digs his fingers into whatever skin is exposed. Charlie applies more pressure and laughs as tears form in Eggsy’s eyes. Through blurry vision, his ex-boyfriend has a sneer on his face while he enjoys the pain he inflicts.

“You’re _mine_ , Unwin,” Charlie yells as Eggsy’s pants loosen and his cold hand is inside of them. Flecks of spittle spray his cheeks as the corners of his eyes begin to grow darker. “Mine! You’re—”

The pressure on his throat falls away, allowing Eggsy to inhale deeply. He chokes as oxygen makes its way into his lungs. Gagging, he slips to the ground on all fours. Once the roar of blood in his ears fades away, the sounds of yelling come at him sharply and suddenly.

Blinking, Eggsy lifts his head to find Harry standing over Charlie with his fist raised. “If I _ever_ see you lay a hand upon him again, I will ensure it’s the last thing you do,” Harry shouts, sounding absolutely livid. Under the concealment of night, he kicks Charlie in the stomach. “Do you understand me?”

“Fuck you!” the other man growls. “I’m going to tell my uncle about this!”

“Go ahead,” Harry dares. “I’ll just tell him how I came upon his nephew attempting to sexually assault one of his candidates. I wonder how well _that_ will go over.” He grabs Charlie by the scruff, pulling him up and shoving him away towards the street. “Get out of my sight!”

Charlie laughs. “He ain’t worth it, Harry,” he exclaims, gesturing to Eggsy. Their eyes meet in the darkness and there, he sees the rage that’s usually buried deep down. “He’s only good for one thing.”

Eggsy swallows, trying to keep the contents of his stomach down. His body begins to tremble as adrenaline seeps out of him while pain becomes more apparent. He doesn’t want to think how pathetic he looks, lying in a heap with his trousers undone while he bleeds onto the rest of his clothes. Closing his eyes, Eggsy realizes he doesn’t even know where his bag has ended up, having dropped it in the melee.

“It is unwise to test my patience, Mr. Hesketh,” the older man warns as he walks. His footsteps come closer each time the soles of his shoes falls upon the ground, crunching the asphalt underneath them.

He slumps to his forearms, pressing his aching forehead onto the cool cement. Cold douses him suddenly; it’s the only way to explain why Eggsy’s shivering so. A groan escapes through his battered mouth as tears spill down his cheeks.

“Eggsy,” Harry whispers. He touches him, tilting his face towards the light and inspecting the damage when Eggsy opens his eyes. Only an hour and a half ago, they were kissing and now…well, now that’s been shot to shit. “Do you think you can stand?”

“I’m cold,” Eggsy tells him through chattering teeth.

The older man efficiently removes his jacket and drapes it over Eggsy’s shoulders. He runs his palms up and down the length of the lad’s arms, trying to create additional warmth. “Is that better?” Harry inquires and grins sadly when Eggsy nods.

He helps Eggsy stand and finds his balance before going to fix his trousers. The zipper is hopelessly broken, forever jammed at the bottom of the seam, while the button is still attached. Carefully, Harry fastens them and moves on to Eggsy’s belt. “There,” he declares once he’s done. “Let’s get you inside the car,” he suggests while he reaches for Eggsy’s bag and slings the strap over his shoulder.

Moving doesn’t come easy; pain saturates every iota of his body between the building and Harry’s car. Eggsy’s whimpers become more constant as he nearly collapses into the backseat. Harry slides in behind him and quickly closes the door while he orders the driver to go somewhere.

He shakes terribly; each vibration sending wave after wave of agony through his body. Curling into the leather seat, Eggsy clutches the lapels of Harry’s jacket as tightly as he’s able and closes his eyes. Behind his lids, Charlie’s face, sinister and grotesque stares back at him. Eggsy notices how the shadows sharpen his bone structure, turning him into a creature of darkness.

“Shh,” Harry intones while his fingers card through Eggsy’s hair.

Eggsy hadn’t even realized he made a sound or that Harry holds him close. Burying his face into his chest, Eggsy shudders all the way to their destination. What transpires is lost upon him and he’s more than grateful.

 

* * *

 

He wakes the first time to his head tucked under Harry’s chin.  

The scent of his cologne is what gives Harry away and slowly pulls Eggsy out of sleep until he blinks his eyes open. He swallows, flinching at the dull ache beginning under his left and sporadically popping up in other regions of his face. As he stifles a yawn, Eggsy remembers his split lip and swipes his tongue over the injury to make sure it hasn’t begun to bleed again.

Nothing, but swollen and bruised skin. It’s exactly how the rest of him feels.

Harry moves under him, grunting softly as he readjusts the position of his head. Eggsy realizes they are on a couch, squeezed together in the small space with only an afghan covering them. He squints in the early morning light streaming through the window dressings, watching as a finely appointed drawing room comes into view. Neither the decor or tidiness come as a surprise; it’s exactly as Eggsy expected of his mentor.

He hadn’t paid much attention to its details the evening before. A vague recollection of sitting on the couch while Harry tended to his injuries crosses Eggsy’s mind. The tuxedo jacket that was once draped upon his shoulders had been discarded in favor of the blanket that covers them now. He had calmed down enough by then, though an intermittent shudder still punctuated the silence between the two men.

Eggsy felt raw in that moment and terribly vulnerable as he allowed Harry to press various things to his face. An ice pack, cotton swabs laced with disinfectant, handkerchiefs soaked in cool water; each one an extension of the gentleman’s fondness for him. Even when tears wet Eggsy’s lashes and his cheeks, Harry offered a tender smile as his fingers brushed them away.

He handled him carefully without making the lad feel fragile and broken nor pity in his warm brown eyes.

Between scooting closer to Harry’s side and breathing him in, Eggsy drifts off again. It’s brighter outside the next time he wakes, indicating several hours have passed, and he’s alone on the couch. The space Harry once occupied has gone cold in his absence. The house creaks around him as a house does. He hears the sound of one cooking and a news broadcast coming from a television or radio.

Rolling onto his back, Eggsy turns his head to find a glass of water and a note on the coffee table. Reaching for the piece of paper, he finds two samples of Harry’s handwriting. The first has been crossed out and indicates that at some point in the morning, Harry was going to pop over to the shops to purchase ingredients to make them breakfast. The other looks more recent and tells him that his host will be in the kitchen.

He traces over the black ink, quietly chuckling at the note. For all of Harry’s quirks, his unfailing politeness has Eggsy’s most favorite thing about him. He pushes himself up to a seated position, minding his sore middle, and drinks some of the water left for him. He realizes that his ruined tuxedo trousers have been taken off, replaced with a pair of pajama bottoms that are definitely not his. His dress shirt has also been removed, leaving him in just his undershirt. Eggsy goes to touch the worn flannel when he hears Harry cursing and remembers that he should let his host know that he’s awake.

Delicious smells waft through the air of Harry’s home, leading Eggsy to the kitchen where the older man mops up spilled coffee from the table. His brows at furrows at the mess where they peek through strands of wavy, unstyled hair.

“Arse, tits, shit,” Harry grumbles. He goes to throw away the sodden paper towel when he notices Eggsy timidly standing at the threshold. “Oh,” he says, brightening considerably. “Good morning.”

He nods in greeting. “Morning,” the lad replies, taking a tentative step into the kitchen. “Got your note. Both of them.”

“So you did,” the other man states as he pulls a chair out for his guest. “I had a feeling that you would appreciate it if I let you rest. Hungry?”

Eggsy sits down, grunting as his middle twinges at the movement. “Famished.” After having not eaten since yesterday afternoon, Eggsy thinks his stomach might eat itself. The pressure of Harry’s hand warms his shoulder before it leaves as his host goes to get him a plate.

Watching the other man inside of his home makes all romantic feelings Eggsy has for him multiply tenfold. With his perfect gentlemanly ways,  Harry goes about plating the lad’s meal. He’s infinitely far more relaxed in private than in public, allowing Eggsy the pleasure of seeing the smallest details of this man—a birthmark located on the side of his neck peeking over the collar of his shirt, the indiscernible melody he hums while moving about his kitchen—in the most unguarded sense.

“I hope you are a fan of blueberries,” Harry says as he sets a plate of food in front of him. It seems that he’s made pancakes with said fruit inside of them along with scrambled eggs and bacon. A cup of coffee is placed next to another glass filled with water.

The smell of the meal is divine, causing Eggsy’s mouth to water. He hasn’t had the opportunity to behold a spread like this since last New Year when he had brunch with Roxy and her family. Stomach rumbling, he picks up a fork. “Thank you,” Eggsy tells Harry, smiling carefully as his host takes a seat across from him.

Together, they eat in silence. Given the circumstances of his first visit to Harry’s home, Eggsy feels the tense atmosphere. Unasked questions loom above them; he notices them reflecting in the other man’s eyes when he catches Harry looking in his direction. Anger and worry are lumped in there as well; Eggsy isn’t stupid and can already hear a well-meaning lecture being formulated.

He sighs into his coffee, watching as his breath stirs the dark liquid and distorts his reflection.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry inquires.

Eggsy shifts his eyes to glance at him, stomach knotting about what he will find. There’s only kindness and understanding. Swallowing, he shakes his head.

“Alright,” the older man says. “When you’re ready.”

 

* * *

 

By some unspoken agreement, he finds himself as a further recipient of Harry’s generosity.

His host installs him in the guest room and directs Eggsy to the bathroom nearby as he sets the lad’s bag down upon a chair. Harry keeps their interactions simple and his distance at whatever lengths Eggsy needs him to be. He offers material things for Eggsy’s use and makes sure that his guest feels welcomed in the wake of the previous evening’s events.

Eggsy keeps his eyes averted when he’s in front of the mirror, not wanting to see the reminders Charlie left behind. He already feels them pulsing intermittently through his body, but actually having to look at them is something the lad doesn’t think he can handle. Even the idea of having to return to his flat makes his heart race.

Eventually, he will need to; it’s a bridge he’ll cross when the time comes.

For now, Eggsy is content to pass a quiet afternoon with Harry. They watch _Top Gear_ reruns on the telly and order takeaway, which they eat in the parlor. It’s unlike any outing he’s had with Harry; those are usually in restaurants with dining cloths and silverware and served on fine china. They spread cartons out on the coffee table, filling the room with the crisp smell of Chinese food. Harry sits on one end of the couch while Eggsy installs himself on other with his feet tucked under him.

Eventually, he burrows under a blanket with his feet pressed against Harry’s thigh, his eyelids fluttering dangerously while both men get lost in the television program on-screen. As his mind drifts, Eggsy realizes that just being in Harry’s sphere is more comfortable than it ought to be.

When all’s said and done, he hasn’t known this man for very long, nor have they been romantically involved for more than a single day, and yet they have already fallen into a routine. His thoughts taper off into a stage between sleep and wakefulness. Every so often the sounds from the telly or Harry moving about punctuate his senses; for the most part, Eggsy is content to just stay there in his cocoon of blankets and pillows.

At some point he must truly fall asleep, for Harry gently shakes his shoulder, rousing the lad. “Perhaps we should put you to bed,” the older man suggests, holding out a hand for Eggsy. His fingers twitch, silently beckoning him to take it.

He doesn’t say a word as Harry helps him to his feet and leads him to the guest room. Once the linens and blankets are pulled back, Eggsy practically face plants onto the mattress and knows no more. He passes the first night without any dreams and wakes the following morning feeling exponentially better.

Nearly enough to forget.

It’s that night when Eggsy’s demons come back, reclaiming his every thought and disturbing his peace. Deep in the recesses of his psyche, Charlie is lurking as he has always done and gives his prey chase.

Eggsy hears his laughter at every turn, despite there being no clear indication of his surroundings. He’s there in Charlie’s trigger hairs, panicked and desperate to find safety. The emotions he feels sink into his skin, dragging him down and holding him hostage as his pursuer comes closer.

He doesn’t remember what hurls him out of the dream. All the lad knows is the sound of his own terrified screams and his ex’s cackles fading away.

It's then he realizes Harry is in the room, disheveled from having his rest disturbed, and has flicked on the lights. He’s changed from his jumper and denim trousers, having exchanged them for sleep clothes. A pillow crease is pressed into his cheek, traveling towards his temple.

The whole thing would be rather comical if Harry didn’t have that look on his face. The one of concern as he watches Eggsy gasping for air. The sadness in his eyes as he waits and waits for the boy to calm doesn’t help matters either.

Sweat causes his shirt to stick uncomfortably to his chest. He pays no mind to it; fear in all its undiluted scent envelops the lad. The bitterness of tears come, leaving his eyes stinging and his mouth unable to find the words to apologize to his host.

Harry understands, though; it’s apparent in the matter in he which he approaches Eggsy. Carefully, he sinks onto the edge of the mattress and waits. Perhaps he wants a cue to touch Eggsy or to speak.

Whatever it is, Harry does so with the utmost patience.

“He used to be nice,” Eggsy eventually tells him, ignoring the way his voice shakes. “When we first met…he was different. Not like he is now.” Closing his eyes, he thinks of how Charlie used to be; lovely is a word that comes to mind. 

Shuddering, he shakes his head. “It was all little things, at first. Comments he’d make or being late to meet me. Sometimes he’d entirely forget and show up at my flat with something corny, like one of those giant stuffed animals, to make it up to me,” he says. As he hears himself speak, Eggsy feels the sickening realization that Charlie had always been like this. Cold, abusive, manipulative. “Things got worse, of course, because that’s how the story goes, innit? I’m the dumb bloke who gets in too deep before he realizes his boyfriend is a monster.”

“You didn’t know what he would be like,” Harry reasons, or at least attempts to.

“But I should have!” Eggsy retorts. He doesn’t mean to yell and yet the sound of his voice is filled with anger and hurt. It burns at his wet cheeks and shatters every last good memory he has of Charlie. “No one could be _that_ perfect and still be interested in a charity case from a shit town! He probably took one look at me with my cello and thought ‘now there’s a lad I can fuck with’.” Eggsy tears his eyes away from Harry to stare at the wall, unable to face him. “He hadn’t hit me before that night, you know. Charlie used to show up like that after disappearing for months on end and I would take him back to my flat. Just repeating the cycle. I never told him no, not once. Even when I didn’t want to go.”

The mattress dips as Harry moves; he’s coming closer to Eggsy and there’s no need to look. Arms wrap around him in a comforting hug, pulling him towards the older man’s chest. His resolve crumbles, allowing the first sob and the next to escape his trembling lips. Eggsy rests his head against Harry’s shoulder and weeps, even as the other man holds him closer.

He doesn’t know how long they stay that way, hours, perhaps but it’s clear that Harry isn’t going to release him until he’s ready. Eggsy’s cries fade into hiccups just as the sun begins to peek through the shutters; it must be dawn now.

“I’ll make sure Mr. Hesketh never lays another hand upon you ever again,” Harry whispers as his lips moving against the lad’s hairline. “I swear it, Eggsy.”

Nodding, he rests his head under the other man’s chin. “I believe you,” Eggsy says.

The strangest thing is, he does.

 

* * *

 

A brief pause follows the progress of their relationship, at least until the dust settles.

Harry reports the incident to the membership committee, aptly called the Round Table, and Eggsy is asked to give a statement of the evening’s events, which he does in the same study where he was submitted for candidacy. A sober man by the name of Gawain makes a transcription of the meeting while Harry, Merlin, and Chester linger towards the back of the room.

It’s a bit intimidating to sit there while still sporting fading bruises and a scabbed over cut on his face, especially with his assailant’s uncle just a few yards away. Eggsy sits with his back straight and his head high as he watches a fountain pen repeating his words onto paper. He overhears a few choice comments from the old man to the tune of “I don’t see why this is necessary”, “This is a waste of time”, and, Eggsy’s personal favorite, “Charlie is a good lad; it must have been a misunderstanding.”

Typical responses from a typical posh bloke with a silver spoon shoved up his arse; it’s enough to make both Gawain and Eggsy roll their eyes while Merlin mutters under his breath. From that moment it’s quite apparent that not many share Chester’s sentiments of his nephew. There are certainly members who thumb their weak chins in Eggsy’s direction, though those are few and far between.

Harry plays the quiet observer, keeping his thoughts to himself until the intake finishes. He thanks everyone for their time, casting a cold look in Chester’s direction before he says, “Come along, Eggsy.” Long fingers cup themselves around his elbow as Harry ushers him from the stifling confines of the mansion and back into London.

“You did very well,” he tells him over a late lunch.

Eggsy stops mid-slicing of his knife, wondering why he’s even surprised that Harry is choosing now to break the silence between them. “Thanks, I guess.”

The drive back had been overbearingly tense, each man sticking to their side of the back seat. He fretted while Harry was the very picture of poise; aside from comforting gestures, they hadn’t so much as touched. It’s been two weeks since the incident and the situation between them leaves Eggsy on edge.

He wants to feel Harry’s lips and body pressed against his. To be able to explore what wonders hide underneath his bespoke suit.

“Not everyone can remain so level-headed in such an event,” Harry continues once he’s finished chewing. “Nor have they impressed Gawain so.” With a dimpled grin, he goes to cut his steak. “He’s rather dour. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in the twenty years I’ve known him.”

Eggsy nods as he watches Harry. “Sounds like a bloke in need of pulling,” he comments.

“My darling boy,” Harry chuckles without looking up, “you have _no_ idea.”

Once their meal has concluded and Harry escorts Eggsy back to his flat, he finally gathers the nerve to say something. He is putting his key in the lock when he utters, “Can I ask you something?” Eggsy glances up to find Harry looking at him and the curiosity written into the planes of his handsome face. In this light, he resembles a schoolboy rather than an adult. “Damn you for being _so_ bloody attractive,” he groans.

Harry blinks, affronted. “My apologies,” he replies with uncertainty, pushing off the wall he leans against. “I won’t be as glib to infer that was your question.”

“Are you trying to let me off easy?” the lad finally asks.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Eggsy sighs as the lock turns. “After we snogged,” he says, reminding Harry of their backstage indiscretions as he opens the door. Leaning in the doorway, the lad huffs a frustrated sigh. “We were going to talk about the state of us. So are you trying to let me off easy? Before I get too invested or summat. Whatever bullshite you posh folks think of.”

“Well…I,” Harry tapers off without the eloquence he usually possesses. It’s endearing to see him completely flustered like this as he stands next to the door frame. A faint blush colors his cheeks, making Eggsy want to kiss him all the more. “I thought that with what happened with…”

He shakes his head in annoyance. “Fuck Charlie!” Eggsy snaps. “He hasn’t a place in this conversation! I’m talking about _us_ , bruv. About what happens next because I know what _I_ want, but I haven’t a clue about you.”

“What do you want, Eggsy?” Harry asks as he crowds into Eggsy’s sphere. Harry uses his height to his advantage, backing him into a corner. His features take on a smoldering effect as he stares Eggsy down. “What is it that you want?”

Pulling him forward by the lapels of his jacket, Eggsy tilts his face dangerously close to Harry’s mouth. “Thought it was obvious,” he whispers, licking his lips. He releases a soft groan as the tip of Harry’s nose drifts over his jawline. It’s cool from the winter evening while the puffs of breath and faint sensation of lips are warm.

There's a moment where Eggsy wonders if he’ll have to outrightly tell Harry that he wants him. He can do that if Harry wants: play a little game, sing a little song.

“Eggsy,” he hears Harry whisper, each consonant and vowel like a benediction, a prayer, an absolution as it from the other man’s lips. Their mouths touch as fingers curl around the nape of his neck. Harry pulls him closer, emitting a muffled groan.

Any uncertainty he felt before is gone, leaving palpable lust in its wake. It drenches the air and follows them into Eggsy’s flat, kissing the entire way. He’s running his fingers through Harry’s coiffed hair, savoring the soft strands and undoing its styling. Rough, calloused hands are on his hips, guiding him towards the bedroom.

There’s no act of undressing until the back of his knees bump against the bed frame. Eggsy feels his body toppling over for a millisecond until the arm around his waist steadies him.

Harry growls into his mouth as he lovingly gnashing his teeth against Eggsy’s bottom lip and flicks the hard surface of a button on Eggsy’s shirt. It loosens heartbeats later, followed by another and another. Eggsy does the same: undoing the clasps on Harry’s suit jacket and slipping it off his broad shoulders. He runs his hands over the length of them, not caring that their kiss has grown sloppy and desperate.

As his shirt comes off and lips are brushing against his neck, Eggsy works on removing Harry’s. “Too many layers, bruv,” he comments hoarsely. The need to have the other man naked is overbearing and it shows in his movements. Yanking off the button-down, he goes for the hem of Harry’s undershirt and pulls it out of his trousers.  

“I could say the very same about you, darling,” Harry tells him as he strips the lad’s torso and dots his lips along his collarbone. He sucks a bruise onto his shoulder while unclasping Eggsy’s belt and pull it through the loops of his slacks. Harry groans again, this time against the hollow of his neck. “Eggsy.”

He lets out a groan of his own as the sharp edges of Harry’s teeth scrape over his skin. “Fuck,” the lad breathes, adjusting his head so Harry can taste more of him. “Your mouth…” Eggsy’s certain the older man has a smirk on his face as he pulls down his trousers, letting them gather around his ankles.  

A warm hand cups between his legs, kneading his erection with clever fingers. He cries out at the pleasurable sensation, especially when Harry pulls down the waistband of his boxer briefs and runs his thumb over Eggsy’s slick frenulum.

“What do we have here?” the other man questions, his voice thick like honey as he brings the glistening digit to his mouth and licks it. Harry’s lips quirk in delight. “Marvelous,” he tells Eggsy as he sinks to his knees, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. “Bloody marvelous, darling.”

Eggsy blinks, the image of this man kneeling before him forever ingrained into his mind, and curses as Harry’s mouth makes contact with his cock. The brush of tongue over his sensitive head, gentle fingers guiding his foreskin down to expose more of the glans and corona. As the length of him disappears between pink lips, he closes his eyes and moans.

“Fuck, Harry,” Eggsy gasps, burying his fingers in the other man’s hair. A hint of teeth makes him shudder and grabs for the broad shoulders within his reach. The slick heat and expertly applied suction will be the end of him, Eggsy is certain of it.

And yet, he doesn’t stop Harry. He lets the man guide him into a freefall of pleasure as Harry’s mouth and hand work his cock. Eggsy can feel his orgasm building in his gut, churning his insides and spreading through his body.

Honestly, he’s been on the verge of cumming from the moment Harry licked his precum from his thumb.

Harry comes off his cock in favor of having his mouth venture elsewhere. His lips and tongue glide over Eggsy’s silken length towards his bollocks, where he thoroughly laves them. “Do you have supplies?” Harry asks, digging his fingers into Eggsy’s hips.

“In the nightstand,” Eggsy whimpers with a careless gesture in the direction of said furniture. He’s shocked he can even form sentences, let allow comprehend what the other man is asking him. He feels as if his brain has short-circuited in a span of minutes.

“Good,” he hears Harry tell him before the world is tilted off its axis. Eggsy shouts as he falls onto the bed while the rest of his clothing is simultaneously removed from his person. He wants to glare at Harry— _God, he wants to so badly_ —but he’s too taken by the man undressing.

Harry reveals his body, cut from toned muscle and fair skin, as he keeps his eyes on Eggsy. He has several scars, silver from age, adorning various areas and it makes him no less attractive in the lad’s eyes. Unsurprisingly, his cock is lovely like the rest of him, thick and long as it proudly juts out from between lightly furred thighs. The kind of cock that will be felt for a day or two after no matter what orifice it penetrates.

He crawls over him, mouthing a path up Eggsy’s body until he reaches his lips. “If you don’t mind waiting a moment,” Harry intones before he leans towards the nightstand. He rifles around in the single drawer of the nightstand where he finds what he seeks. Curled possessively in his hand is a condom and the bottle of KY Eggsy keeps. Dropping the lubricant on the bed, Harry uses his teeth to tear open the rubber’s foil packaging and goes about fitting it over his cock.

“C’mere,” Eggsy beckons as he touches Harry’s arm. They meet in the middle, mouths colliding with mutual sighs of pleasure. How long they stay that way is beyond him, for the next beat Eggsy is aware of is the slow burn of a slick finger entering his hole. He breaks the kiss to moan. “Harry,” he croaks as he drops his head onto his lover’s shoulder.

The other man grunts in acknowledgment. “I know,” he whispers. A gentle peck is pressed into Eggsy’s hair as his hole is worked open. “I know, my darling boy.”

He shudders helplessly as another finger inches in alongside the first. Eggsy balls the sheets in both fists while he’s spread-legged and absolutely wanton for Harry. Arousal becomes a coy thing, coming in waves and catching him off guard. By the time Harry has three fingers inside of him, Eggsy thrusts to meet his lover’s ministrations and crying out with each brush that glances off his prostate.

“Harry,” he begs, unable to open his eyes. “ _Harry_!”

“I’m here,” Harry assures, withdrawing his fingers, much to Eggsy’s vocal protests. A warm hand strokes his flank. The sound of lubrication being poured onto latex comes, followed by Eggsy’s leg being lifted and fitted over a broad shoulder. “You are utterly beautiful,” Harry tells him as the thick flare of his cockhead pushes against Eggsy’s hole.

His teeth graze his bottom lip, muffling his cries while his lover breeches him. A burning spreads under his skin, overtaking Eggsy’s senses. He’s unaccustomed to Harry’s girth and for the briefest moment, his vision whites out behind his closed lids. His body finally relents, allowing Harry passage and it’s a relief.

Fingers dig into the meat of his calf, drawing Eggsy out of his own mind. He opens his eyes to find Harry hovering above him and taken on a whole other appearance.

Always a poised individual, sex brings out another side to the likes of Harry Hart. The elegance and patience Eggsy has come to associate with his lover vanishes. He becomes wild in all his mannerisms: from the way he fucks into Eggsy to the kisses he bestows upon the young man’s lips. Harry draws out foreplay and preparation, teasing unashamedly while his lover sobs for release. He makes possessive noises while drawing his teeth over the lad’s throat and sucking the sweat off his skin, leaving a bruise shaped like his beautiful mouth.

Harry pillages until Eggsy shakes apart from orgasm, continuing to ride him until he’s on the crest of another. He pulls that one out of him, too, before joining him with a final thrust. Even with latex between them, Eggsy feels the invisible brand Harry leaves behind and the warmth that comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of "Time" that Eggsy performs is based off [this piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IMhwLg-L84) by 2Cellos.


	4. recapitulation

Dating Harry Hart is well…it’s not what Eggsy expected.

It’s just that…he didn’t know what to expect. Not exactly.

Perhaps he’s jaded by his previous long-term relationship, but Eggsy finds himself as the center of Harry’s attention. He’s not one of those blokes who suffocates and domineers their partner or is the keeping one at arm's length sort. Harry is respectful in every sense of the word and dotes upon him at every opportunity.

His gifts by comparison of Eggsy’s benefactor are on a small scale, though no less generous or heartfelt. It seems his boyfriend has taken note of the things he enjoys, from his favorite coffee beans to several stems of peonies with a kind note laid at his station before a show.

Then are the expensive presents, such as a bespoke suit of his very own. Eggsy and Harry go to a tailor’s shop on Saville Row—a street the lad used to think was too posh for the likes of him—for multiple fittings.

“A bespoke suit,” Harry explains while Eggsy stands perfectly still for the tailor, “never goes out of style.”

Eggsy can’t help but snort. “Is that why your closet is practically filled with them?”

“Precisely,” his boyfriend replies with a secretive grin. He sips his tea while flicking through the paper. “Ector, make sure to bill my account.”

Harry lifts his eyes, ready for Eggsy’s protest, and smiles when he receives none. It’s taken a bit to get used to, but the lad has learned it’s better not to argue with Harry, especially when it comes to things such as this.

Slowly, the wall Eggsy has carefully constructed around his heart ever since Charlie brutally dumped him begins to come down. Harry continues to be patient and understanding as he’s always been. All of the affection and compliments that are paid to Eggsy as he’s not used to such treatment. At first, it’s disconcerting how freely these are given and without malice hidden underneath, but soon Eggsy welcomes it.

Then again, Harry has always been full of surprises.

“You are deep in thought, darling,” Harry comments as they lie in bed, naked. The room is charged with the aftermath of sex; from the clothes thrown about to the sweat drying upon their skin.

He turns to find his boyfriend staring at him from behind a curtain of wavy hair falling over his eyes and flushed cheeks. Harry reclines against the pillows with one arm slung over his head and the headboard. Offering a wicked grin, Harry rolls onto his side and inches closer to Eggsy. “Is something on your mind?”

“Was just thinking is all,” Eggsy admits as he moves, meeting Harry somewhere in the middle of the bed. He reaches to touch his bicep, tracing over the sinew with a fingertip. Eggsy watches as the skin pimples under his ministrations. “About how different you are from all the others.”

Harry catches his finger and brings it to his mouth, where he bestows a kiss upon Eggsy’s knuckle. “How is that, my darling boy?”

“How much time do you got?” he teases. Moving his finger from Harry’s lips, he goes to cup the older man’s cheek and sighs. “You are amazing. Do you know that?”

“I like to think so,” Harry replies with a shrug. His rich eyes glint wickedly as a dimpled smile appears. “Though, I am flattered that you noticed as well.”

Eggsy snorts, pulling his boyfriend closer until they are wrapped up in each other’s arms and he’s resting his head on Harry’s chest. “Everything you say and do,” he begins to tell him, “is never for appearance’s sake. You really mean it. I’ve never been involved with someone who wasn’t trying to blow hot air up my arse.”

“That’s because there are other, more pleasurable things to do to your arse,” Harry agrees. His fingers dip underneath the blankets, creeping towards the Eggsy’s bottom.

He gasps and arches against his lover as fingertips drift over the puckered skin of his arsehole. “Fuck,” he whispers, dropping his forehead onto the lovely curve of Harry’s shoulder. Automatically he hooks a leg over his boyfriend’s hips, allowing for better access.

“You can’t seem to help yourself,” Harry observes. His mouth is closer to Eggsy’s jaw, which he runs his teeth over until coming to a spot just below his ear. Nuzzling it with the tip of his nose, Harry goes to suck on the sensitive area. As he applies pressure, the tip of one finger slips inside of Eggsy and earns a desperate keen for his efforts.

“Same to you,” Eggsy retorts. He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing Harry to manipulate their positions until he’s on his back and his boyfriend kneels between his spread legs.

Lips press against his inseam, creating an invisible dotted line with each gentle caress. Eggsy knows where their destination is—the apex of his thighs—but how long Harry will drive him out of his mind is another thing entirely. He groans as the finger in his arsehole ventures deeper and is joined by a second, hell-bent on stretching him open for Harry’s cock.

His boyfriend’s bedroom repertoire is quite colorful, make no mistake, and certainly isn’t fit for polite company, but Eggsy loves hearing Harry growl into his ear. It doesn’t matter if his wrists are being held down upon the mattress or they’re fucking against a wall; he never feels degraded when Harry utters filthy words.

“You take it so well,” Harry whispers into the knob of his hip. Three of his fingers are inside of him now, milking his prostate as Eggsy writhes upon the bed.

He must have said something without realizing it. “Please,” Eggsy moans as he thrusts into Harry’s palm. Sweat beads his upper lip and above his brow, dislodging when his boyfriend flexes inside of him. “Harry!”

“Insatiable,” Harry drawls, removing his fingers from the sheath of Eggsy’s hole while his tongue licks up the column of the lad’s throat.

The drag of his cock as Harry manipulates Eggsy’s body is hot against his thigh, leaving sticky trails of precum upon the skin it encounters. “Harry,” he whispers pleadingly.

“Shh,” the older man murmurs while shoving his shoulders under the back of the lad’s legs. “Patience, darling,” Harry tells him before shoving himself deep inside of Eggsy.

Later, much later when Harry believes him to be asleep as he worries his thumb over his shoulder blade, Eggsy listens to his boyfriend’s breathing. “I should very much like to keep you,” he whispers into the quiet of the room.

Harry’s tone has a hint of sadness to it as if this confession is a secret meant for no one’s ears but his own.

Eggsy doesn’t think of it come morning.

 

* * *

 

Life goes on, as it’s wont to do.

Eggsy finds himself in Wales for yet another stilted Christmas visit with his uncle. He shouldn’t complain—it’s a rare gift to be able to go home for the holidays, one of LSO’s busiest seasons—but in truth, he’d rather spend it with Harry.

Honestly, Dean would probably prefer Eggsy to stay in London but is too polite to say so.

When he arrives at the front door of his childhood home, it’s as quiet as he recalls from the last visit. Dean gives him the same gruff hello when he lets Eggsy in and out of habit, shows him to his bedroom on the second floor. Neither of them engages in small talk because it’s too tedious to and they allow the silence to be filled by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front room or when Eggsy decides to play the horribly out of tune piano.

He spends most of his time catching up with boyhood mates, mainly Ryan and Jamal. They go to the pub along the docks or to the cinema several towns over. It’s nice to have a break from the constant flow of activity and noise he finds in London.

There’s only one thing he misses about the city— _Harry_.

His boyfriend has his own family gatherings in Oxfordshire. “The usual peerage formalities,” Harry explains one evening while he hides in an empty room. “Five-course dinners with stale conversation, followed by cigars and brandy in the library while the women go to the parlor.”

“Fuck me,” Eggsy gasps. “They really do that?”

“Why ever did you think they did not?” Harry asks, his voice sounding far away. Too far away.

Eggsy pulls his sock-covered feet closer; he’s sitting on his bed while Dean is downstairs watching something on the telly. A steady downpour of rain pelts the window, typical weather for Tremadog during the winter. “Thought that sort of stuff was only part of BBC Serials,” he admits.

“They had to get it from somewhere, darling,” his boyfriend teases. The smile on his face is evident through the miles separating them. “How is your uncle?”

Eggsy casts a look of disdain towards his closed door. Muffled sounds from the program Dean has on gives him no clues, but it’s not like he truly wants to know. “Keeping me at arm’s length, per usual.”

“Perhaps if you—”

“Harry,” he says, cutting him off. “Let it be, alright? I’m only here for formalities; it’s what my aunt would have wanted.”

A sigh fills the speaker. “He’s your only living family,” Harry reminds him. “I just wish…I wish things were different between you both.”

“That’s awfully nice to say about someone you’ve never met,” Eggsy comments. Leave it to Harry Hart to say and do the right thing rather than bad mouth a stranger.

“Well, I care an awful lot about you, darling,” Harry replies. A door creaks open on his end of the call and is followed by a woman’s voice. “Yes. I’ll be right there,” he tells her, groaning in frustration once he’s left alone. “My aunt says my parents are looking for me.”

His chest deflates upon hearing this. “I suppose I’ll speak to you later,” Eggsy mumbles.

“My darling boy,” Harry fondly sighs. “We shall see each other soon and when we do, I’ll be sure to keep you in bed for as long as possible.”

Eggsy’s cock twitches at the prospect. “Is that a promise, Harry Hart?”

“More than,” his boyfriend says.

Another uncomfortable Christmas passes and Eggsy returns to London with a heavy sigh of relief. He spends the entire plane ride thinking of Harry, who is meeting him in the arrivals terminal at Gatwick, and how much he missed him.

Even if their separation was only for several days, it doesn’t matter; Eggsy wants to be wrapped up in Harry’s arms and watch his mannerisms when he speaks rather than listen to him through a mobile speaker. As the kilometers between them draw closer and closer, he reckons that he might be a little bit in love with Harry.

Eggsy finds him standing by the entrance to the luggage claim, looking even more handsome than he recalls. In the moments Harry doesn’t see him, Eggsy is able to observe him unaware; from the way Harry checks his mobile to how he draws his teeth over his bottom lip.

It’s when Eggsy approaches him that Harry spots him, grinning delightedly. He picks up his steps, rushing through the crowd until Eggsy can drop his carry-on and throw his arms around Harry’s broad shoulders. Standing on tiptoe, he kisses him in full view of the other Gatwick patrons. Whatever they may think about his May-December romance, it doesn’t matter. Eggsy has Harry pressed up against him where he belongs.

The vibration of Harry’s chuckle passes through him as strong arms pull Eggsy closer. Fingers curl at the base of his skull, petting Eggsy’s hair as his lips are caught between his boyfriends. Heartbeats pass until they pull apart, breathing in each other’s air and smiling like a pair of lunatics.

“I really fucking missed you,” Eggsy confesses, glancing up into the warm brown pools of Harry’s eyes. He leans into the caress of his boyfriend’s hand as he touches his cheek.

“And I, you, my darling boy,” Harry whispers with a kiss on Eggsy’s brow.

 

* * *

 

Eggsy rings in the New Year with his cock in Harry’s arse and his long legs over his shoulders while the rest of the world celebrates in more traditional ways.

The clock strikes midnight as Harry clenches around him with his graceful hands threaded through Eggsy’s sweat-dampened hair, causing the lad’s ruin. He pumps into the intoxicatingly tight heat once, twice, three times before free falling onto his boyfriend’s chest, panting wordlessly over warm skin.

“It’s midnight,” Harry comments, lovingly carding his fingers through Eggsy’s hair. Eggsy groans when he moves and interrupts the lad’s stupor. “I daresay that this is a far more exciting way to start the new year than being drunk at one of Chester’s parties.”

Eggsy chuckles. “I should hope so,” he teases, “I’d hate to think of him sleeping with you.”

“Fear not, my love,” the other man assures. “My eyes are only for you.”

Lifting his head off Harry’s chest, Eggsy gazes upon him, puzzled. “Love?”

“Well yes,” his boyfriend says with certainty. “I’m quite in love with you, Eggsy Unwin. Merlin was teasing me relentlessly during the holidays for all I was pining for your company.”

The way he declares his feelings—without malice or ulterior motive—brings tears to the lad’s eyes. In hindsight, it’s silly to think, even though Eggsy can’t help himself. He leans in, kissing Harry to conceal the sob bubbling in his throat and the wetness slipping down his cheeks.

Harry knows; he always knows. He makes an obliging sound and brings Eggsy closer, cupping his face to wipe the tears away with his thumbs. They part when Eggsy initiates it, leaving a smile on Harry’s lips in wake of their kiss. “My darling boy,” he sighs, thinking the lad isn’t listening, “I shall do my best to protect you.”

It’s a strange thing to say, though not entirely unsurprising as it _is_ Harry.

From the moment the country’s hangover lifts, Eggsy finds himself bombarded with Kingsman tasks when he isn’t at work.

They aren’t particularly dangerous. Nothing having to do with jumping out of planes or trying to find a way out of a room filling with water, thankfully, but they are meant to test his and the other candidates’ agility and problem-solving. Eggsy passes them, much to Chester King’s chagrin, while two more young men are sent home with their mentors in tow. 

He gets an uneasy feeling around the old coot; not because he’s Charlie’s uncle (which would be reason enough). There is something sinister about the momentary glare and cold smile that follows when Chester lays eyes upon him. As if this man has been calculating every possible way to keep Eggsy from succeeding; this knowledge must drive him absolutely barking mad. Chester’s mildly contained disdain for him and, more recently, Harry, is uncomfortable at best, though it doesn’t seem to bother his boyfriend.

“As I’ve told Chester,” Harry explains one evening over an intimate dinner in his house, “there’s a reason aristocrats developed weak chins.”

Eggsy snorts into his plate while Harry smirks into his wine glass. “Come off it,” he exclaims. “I’m being serious, Harry!” He pushes his food—a delicious breaded salmon over saffron rice—around with his fork. “Chester looks like he’s about to poison my drink if he could. I don’t trust him.”

“As you shouldn’t, dear boy,” Harry agrees. “Always trust your instincts.”

Wrinkling his nose, Eggsy lifts his eyes from his plate. “Is this some sort of after-school special?”

“It is sound advice,” the other man counters. Harry has that stubborn look about him, something which Eggsy easily recognizes. Despite his casual demeanor in regards to the topic, there lies a seriousness underneath it all.

Eggsy runs his sock-covered foot over Harry’s ankle, grinning adoringly. “If you insist, bruv.”

 

* * *

 

It’s February now and a wet one at that.

Eggsy is glad he’s safely ensconced in a practice room at the Barbican rather than having to fight the torrential downpour dumping all over London. He’s been playing his part of a Brahms symphony for hours; practicing and practicing until he can hit the notes in his sleep.

This is how he usually prepares for concerts; his dedication keeps him grounded by having the bow in his hand while his cello leans into him. Previous lovers found Eggsy’s process tiring, if not tedious. Only Harry—and Charlie, at one point—enjoys it; he often comes into the small space the lad is practicing in to bask in Eggsy’s musical abilities. He is the best sort of audience; one that does not clap needlessly nor issue comments when Eggsy stops playing. 

He sets his bow down on the chair next to him and flexes his hand, working the cramps out one by one as he looks about the room. Situating his cello, Eggsy stands up and rolls his neck, listening to the cartilage crunching in relief. He knows he should be better about taking breaks; everyone he’s played with has told him this. His tutors and professors, his conductor, Gazelle, and even Harry.

Eggsy breaks into a smile when he thinks of his boyfriend and his idea of stretching, one that usually ends up with both of them naked. Walking over to his bag for the bottle of water he packed, Eggsy uncaps it and takes a sip while rummaging around for his mobile.

Several texts await him, including one from Harry and another from Roxy. Grinning and eager to read the former, he punches in his passcode as he goes back to his vacant seat. Sitting down, he cackles at Harry’s polite diatribe over his client who sounds like a real knob head and goes to message him back with an update about practice.

He decides to phone Roxy rather than text her; quite frankly, he misses his best mate. Aside from being acutely intelligent and talented, she _knows_ exactly what Eggsy is going through in regards to the upcoming concert. Stepping outside of the practice room, he brings his phone to his ear as he begins to pace the corridor and listens to his mobile ringing.

“Eggsy!” Roxy exclaims. “I thought you’d be practicing.”

He leans against the wall, dropping the back of his head to the cool surface. “Taking a bit of a break,” he tells her. “I swear to god, Rox, my fingers are about ready to fall off!”

She makes a sympathetic sound. “I hope you won’t stay there too much longer. You don’t want to burn yourself out.”

“Yes, Mum,” Eggsy teases as he pushes off the wall and begins to walk the corridor once more. The movement loosens all the knots in his body. “So tell me, what have you been up to?”

They spend a good deal of time catching up; laughter is something Eggsy needs right now, especially with the upcoming show on the horizon. He has yet another solo, which, while not surprising in wake of his success from the movie concert, is no less daunting.

By Kingsman’s intervention, he has found himself in such a place. His colleagues and friends give encouragement, though they are in the dark of the circumstances that have brought him to this point. Eggsy is more nervous than ever before, surpassing the emotions he felt during his LSO audition.

At least he has Harry, who understands his current situation to a degree, but it’s not the same. If only he could break his candidate’s oath and tell Roxy; only then would the weight lift.

“So when will I get to meet this chap of yours?” she asks as their call draws to a close.

Eggsy walks back to his practice room, feeling slightly less burdened. “Officially?” He hears her groan and laughs. “Harry and I were tossing around the idea of coming to Vienna soon. He told me he’d ‘very much like to meet’ you.”

“Now that he realizes I’m not your girlfriend,” Roxy replies, giggling. “I should have some time within the next month. Text me some dates and we’ll plan for it.”

“It’ll be nice to see you,” Eggsy admits. “I really miss you, Rox.”

She sighs. “I miss you too, love. Now stop getting on soppy on me and go practice!”

Pushing open the door to the room, he ends the call and tucks his mobile back into his pocket before picking up his water bottle. Eggsy rolls his shoulders as he drinks, wincing at the earthy taste of the liquid. “The fuck?” he mumbles, pulling away to inspect it. Wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, Eggsy wonders if he’s left the bottle in his bag for too long. Shrugging to himself, he fastens the cap and tosses it into the nearby trash bin.

“One more hour, Unwin,” he says to no one as he crosses the room to his cello. “And then you go home.”

Taking another step forward brings an unexpected wave of dizziness. Eggsy blinks, straightening his posture while the moment comes and goes. Rubbing at his hairline in confusion, he begins to wonder if he’s already overdone it for the day.

“Buck up,” Eggsy mutters, continuing on.

A few more footfalls pass, bringing another light-headed tide that causes the lad to sway. He lurches forward, gripping an empty chair that he sits down in. His stomach roils with sudden appearing nausea while sweat begins to bead at his hairline and a metallic taste fills his mouth. Eggsy drops his face into his hands, waiting out the ill feeling and cursing his rotten luck; it would be quite the proper fuck-up if he ends up getting sick right before a show.

The door to his practice room opens, bringing the sound of heels clicking on the floor.

“Amelia, thank fuck you’re here,” Eggsy says, weakly. “Could you grab me something to drink? I feel like shit!”

He lifts his head, ignoring how the edges of his vision blur and darken, to find Charlie standing in front of the door, grinning. “What are you doing here?” Eggsy snaps, launching to his feet.

The move is ill-advised; he stumbles, landing hard on his hands and knees. Swallowing hard, Eggsy notices how the floor spins.

“Feeling alright, Unwin?” Charlie inquires, walking over until he’s standing next to the other man. He squats down and tilts his head. “You look a bit peaked.”

Eggsy blinks as his lips go cold. He swears his entire face has drained itself of color. “I need to get home,” he slurs.

“You know,” Charlie begins to say, “there’s a much easier way to get home than this; that’s what I told them. A cab, the Tubes. But they wanted something even stronger…”

He faces his ex-boyfriend as the missing pieces fall into place; a macabre riddle told by an evil force with cold blue eyes and an even colder smile. “What did you do to me?” Eggsy whispers, feeling fainter by the second.

“It wasn’t me,” the other man promises, leering as Eggsy collapses onto the floor. “But Rohypnol is fairly potent, wouldn’t you agree?”

Darkness swallows him before he can tell Charlie where to shove it.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Eggsy notices is that his mouth tastes as if someone has rubbed several pence inside of it.

It’s the coppery tang that is the final push for him to force his eyes open. Each lid feels as if someone has taped them down for how hard it is to command them to obey. Smacking his lips together and wincing at the truly rank residue on his tongue, Eggsy’s eyes flutter open with a pained groan.

Everything around him is dark and damp. The scent of wet earth fills his nostrils, though nothing can deter him from feeling something cold and solid pressing into his shoulder blades. Eggsy’s head rolls upon his neck as he groans again.

He blinks, allowing the darkness to recede to a poorly lit tunnel. Startled, the lad jumps only to knock the back of his head into metal. “Fuck!” Eggsy curses, shutting his eyes as the pain spikes and calms to a dull ache.

A soft chuckle comes; anger immediately flares from deep inside of him to his fists just so he can punch Charlie. To hell with manners and all the shit that Kingsman’s doctrine preaches—Eggsy is going to pummel that rat-faced arsehole as soon as he can stand.

Rope bites into the delicate skin of his wrists, anchoring them and his ankles in place to railroad tracks, as it turns out. His heart surges as nausea causes his stomach to cramp. “Holy shit,” he whispers, pulling on his restraints.

“Eggsy Unwin,” a man states.

Hearing his name, Eggsy looks up to find a man with dark skin, even darker eyes hidden behind round glasses, and possibly the most garish outfit he’s had the misfortune of seeing standing in front of him. “Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, tugging at the ropes. “Where am I?”

The stranger ignores him as he rifles around his jacket and pulls out a knife. Gleaming in the dim light, the blade taunts Eggsy with the freedom it can provide him. “This can save your life, huh?” the man asks.

Definitely American by his lack of accent and the pronounced lisp that makes the lad want to laugh in his face. Except this bloke has the means to cut the rope fastened around Eggsy’s limbs. An approaching train whistle blows, its echoing filling the cavern. Eggsy’s head snaps in the direction of the sound. “Fuck!”

The interrogator squats down, looking as serious as one can be while wearing terrible fashion choices. “My employer’s got two questions for you, Mr. Unwin,” he says. “What the fuck is Kingsman and who’s Harry Hart?”

“I don’t know who the fuck that is!” Eggsy shouts as lights flood the tunnel. He begins to struggle against his bonds, not caring about the sting and chafe. “ _Shit_!”

“Oh Eggsy,” the man sighs as his fingers dangling the knife in front of him. “I just killed two of your friends who gave me the same bullshit answer.”

He thinks of the two other candidates and swallows. They aren’t his mates, but shit that is not a good way to go. “Fuck! Just cut the fucking ropes, please!” Eggsy shifts and cries out as one of the ropes bites into his ankle, digging and digging until it breaks the skin.

The train comes closer; its’ approach rattles the tracks and fills the tunnel with the smell of gasoline and oil. He literally has seconds to rat out Kingsman and Harry—that’s all it would take for his man to free him. To break his vow and tell him everything.

“Hey Eggsy,” the stranger calls. A sinister smile has already formed on his lips. “Is Kingsman worth dying for?”

A moment of defiance comes, numbing Eggsy’s terror as he glares at the man. He thinks of Harry’s face and would much rather die than betray him. “Fuck yeah!” he shouts over the sound of the train’s whistle.

It’s all he can hear is the shrill sound of his death and feel the clench of his body as it awaits impact. He kind of hoped the powers that be would throw him a bone and allow Eggsy a nice, quiet end in old age. Where he falls asleep in a warm bed and dies in his sleep.

Instead, he’s about to be run over by several tons of metal.

It comes as a surprise when the ground drops, lowering the lad to safety. His stomach lurches at the sudden movement and he gasps when he opens his eyes to find the train passing over him until all that’s there are the stranger and Harry.

A shaky exhales blows throw his lips; it’s a task. Just another task to evidently test his loyalty to Kingsman.

“Well done,” his boyfriend exclaims as an enigmatic grin brightens his face. “Bloody well done!” He turns to the other man. “Richmond, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” the stranger, Richmond, says, his voice slipping into a posh English accent. “Give me just a second, Harry.”

Eggsy blinks at the deception. “What the fuck?”

“Have you not met?” Harry inquires as Eggsy is brought back to the surface. “Richmond Valentine, meet Eggsy Unwin.”

Richmond gives him a friendly wave. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Unwin. Sorry about earlier; it was my turn for the train task.”

Eggsy is too stunned to even nod as Harry goes about cutting the ropes and helps him to his feet once he’s pocketed the knife. “I hope you never plan on becoming evil,” he finally manages to say while rubbing his wrists. “Had me going for a bit!”

“Did you hear that?” Richmond laughs, clearly delighted. “I was convincing!”

He turns to Harry, who goes to touch his abused skin. “How’d the others do?” His mouth still feels rank, something easily cured by water, and a cool sensation is forming in his stomach, spreading towards his extremities.

Eggsy reckons it must be his adrenaline wearing off.

“Digby passed with flying colors,” his boyfriend tells him while inspecting the damage. Harry presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist and looks at Eggsy. “Hugo’s up next. Want to watch?”

He shrugs despite the ache beginning in his skull. “Yeah, alright.”

Harry holds out his hand for Eggsy’s taking. “Come, darling,” he beckons, fingers twitching.

Taking a step forward, his surroundings churn and he pitches forward. Eggsy falls into Harry’s arms, trying desperately to keep his eyes open. Above him, his boyfriend’s worried face blurs until it’s nothing but a flesh-colored speck.

“Eggsy!” Harry shouts. Why his voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance is beyond Eggsy’s comprehension.

Someone else shouts as well—Richmond, Eggsy reckons. It’s drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears and his own rasping breaths. A cool hand touches his cheek, tapping it when he doesn’t respond. They keep saying his name over and over, louder with each passing moment.

The chant of his name follows Eggsy into the waiting abyss.

 

* * *

 

Everything about coming to is fucking _miserable_.

There isn’t a portion of Eggsy’s body that doesn’t ache or cry out in protest when his eyelids flutter open. His groan catches in his sore throat and comes out as the smallest sound. It reminds him of a half-heard whisper, one that requires the listener to pay close attention to even hear it uttered. Moving is absolute agony, which Eggsy finds out almost immediately when he shifts his head from one cheek to the other. He feels as if someone is stabbing him directly in the brain and repeating their attack over and over.

He doesn’t even want to speak for fear of what pain that will bring. Movement ricochets in his ear canal until it hits the drum, beating against it until Eggsy does whimper.

“Darling?” a voice calls, followed by the cool, gentle touch of a hand upon his brow. It stays there, bringing relief. “Eggsy, can you hear me?”

Of course, Harry would be at his side, steadfast and loyal as always.

Eggsy forces his eyes to open and remain that way, finding himself under an unfamiliar canopy of crewel embroidery. The daylight proves to be too much for his retinas and he shuts his lids with a groan. As he lies in bed, Eggsy attempts to piece together what happened to him. He is certain he was only just inside of an anonymous train tunnel, tied down to the tracks while a man sought to get information about Kingsman from him.

Even in the face of death, the lad hadn’t said a word—he _knew_ that. All Eggsy could think about in those terrifying moments was his oath to Kingsman and Harry.

A man he is willing to die for because he loves him so much.

“Where?” Eggsy finally manages. His vocal cords protest with each letter.

“You’re at the Kingsman mansion,” Harry is quick to explain. He has a fond and worried expression on his face when the lad looks up at him. His hand has moved from Eggsy’s brow to his hair, which he cards through slowly, while his lovely brown eyes fill with tears. “My darling boy,” he whispers, “what I would have done if I had lost you.”

Eggsy pulls a face. “Lost me? I’m right here.”

Turmoil floods his boyfriend’s face as if his words have wounded him so deeply. Rubbing a strand of Eggsy’s hair between his thumb and forefinger, Harry swallows, audibly. “The task you completed required the use of Rohypnol so we could transport you to the location,” he says. “Do you remember?”

The memory of him inside of a practice room and Charlie looming nearby is fuzzy at best. Unconsciousness had swept Eggsy away so quickly that he wonders if it had been a dream; a terrible dream.

“The water,” he replies.

Harry nods. “You were dosed with too much,” he states, his voice filled with emotion. A tear dislodges from an eye and falls down his cheek, where it disappears under the curve of his jaw. “Neither Richmond nor I realized it until you collapsed. Our medical staff had to pump your stomach or you would have…”

Eggsy watches him as he turns away, unable to finish his sentence. Harry’s grip on Eggsy’s hand tightens. “I’m fine now,” Eggsy assures, inwardly wincing at hearing his own croaking voice.

Harry leans in, pressing his lips to Eggsy’s forehead and then his temple. He pauses there, not moving until a good minute has passed. His cologne lingers when Harry pulls back to stroke the lad’s cheek. “Hardly,” he teases, though the worry is still reflecting in his eyes. “You ought to look at yourself, darling.”

“In a bit, maybe,” Eggsy tells him. He sits up, taking each movement slowly and with Harry’s quiet assistance. The muscles in his body are stiff from disuse, leading him to wonder how much time has passed from the task to him waking up. “How long have I been here?”

Harry’s hand is on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “Three days,” he replies.

“ _Three_ days?” Eggsy repeats, stunned. “How? How is that even possible? What the fuck!” He begins to throw the blankets off him when Harry touches his arm.

“I have my suspicions,” his boyfriend says, cryptically. One of his brows raises, seemingly motioning towards the ceiling of the room. “Unfortunately, suspicions do little to provide answers.”

He follows Harry’s gaze where he notices an expertly concealed camera. Of course, they would be under surveillance while inside the Kingsman mansion. Eggsy never guessed Chester to be the paranoid sort, but he isn't entirely surprised.

“Roxy called while you were indisposed,” Harry mentions ever so casually. “Charming young woman. I told her that you overdid your practicing and came down with a rather nasty virus.”

Eggsy scowls upon hearing this. “Of _course_ , you did,” he grumbles.

“I said that you would call her as soon as you are feeling up to it,” Harry adds as he pulls back the blankets, revealing the borrowed pajamas Eggsy has been dressed in. “Come, you probably would like to freshen up before eating.”

There is a glint in Harry’s eyes that makes the lad go with him. As if he has something on his tongue that he wishes to tell Eggsy and knows of a place—the bathroom evidently—to do so. The trek begins slowly while Eggsy’s body acclimates to moving once again, though soon Harry closes the door behind them and goes to run Eggsy a bath.

“Sit,” he commands in a gentle tone.

Eggsy does so, but not without catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. A specter-like creature with pale skin and dark circles under their eyes stares back. It’s his own reflection—Eggsy knows that—though the person looking through the glass is like nothing he’s ever seen in himself.

“Eggsy,” Harry calls.

His eyes shift from the mirror to the other man, who gestures towards the toilet. Taking a seat on the lid, Eggsy waits for his boyfriend to say or do something. Instead, Harry busies himself with the water until he’s deemed it acceptable.

“That overdose was no accident,” Harry tells him. “But you already knew that.”

He nods. “I figured as much. Do you know who did it?”

“Either Charlie or Chester, perhaps both.” Harry frowns in thought before meeting Eggsy’s stare. “There are too many members with access to the materials used for elimination tasks; I cannot accuse them until I have solid evidence. Just because they are not fond of you does not give me grounds to make such a statement.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Eggsy replies with a shrug.

Harry shakes his head in agreement, turning his attention back to the bath as he shuts off the water. He sits on the edge, both hands gripping the porcelain until his knuckles are nearly white. “I must ask you something, darling,” he begins, “and I need you to give me an honest answer.”

“Of course,” Eggsy says as he leans closer. “Anything.”

A sigh comes from Harry’s parted lips. His fingers brush against Eggsy’s cheekbone, caressing it as if the lad will break under a rougher touch. “My darling boy,” Harry whispers, sounding both forlorn and fond all at once if it’s even possible. “Do you trust me?”

Eggsy lifts his eyes, searching his boyfriend’s face for signs of trouble. There is only the same earnest expression Harry wears like a heart upon a sleeve—so open and lovely and only for him. “With my life,” he answers.

His reply gives the other man pause. Silence fills the room, save for the sound of water falling from the facet to the bath water.

“There will be a time that I will ask something of you and I will need you to do it unquestioningly,” Harry tells him. “Will you do such a thing?”

Eggsy nods immediately. “Haven’t I always?” he teases with a smirk, trying to break the tension of their conversation.

It earns a wan grin from Harry. “Yes, my darling. You always have.” He sits up straight after a moment and motions to the tub. “Your bath awaits,” he says, signaling the end of their conversation.

Before Eggsy can begin undressing, there is a knock at the door. They exchange a curious glance while Harry goes to answer it. An older gentleman who resembles Alec Guinness stands in wait. His Kingsman nickname is Gawain, from what little Eggsy recalls of him.

“Chester would like to see you both in the drawing room,” he announces. His blue eyes fall upon Eggsy for a long while, never wavering from the boy’s appearance. “Mr. Unwin’s things are in the wardrobe.”

Harry nods. “Yes, of course,” he says, turning to Eggsy. “I will be just a moment.” He watches as his boyfriend ushers Gawain out of the bathroom, their voices carrying into indistinguishable sentences.

So Eggsy waits. He keeps himself occupied by draining the tub and going to brush his teeth to rid his mouth of its dryness. Chester will expect him to look impeccable, leading the boy to believe that a quick shower is necessary.

After all, he’s been lying in the same clothes for three days.

Stripping himself of the pajamas, Eggsy turns on the water faucets for the shower and steps inside once it’s reached a comfortable temperate. It’s a quick affair and he’s out by the time Harry is entering with a garment bag draped over his arms.

“This came for you a few days ago,” Harry explains as he hangs it from a hook.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Eggsy comes forward to inspect it. “What is it?”

“Your suit,” the other man replies. He unzips the bag, revealing the charcoal pinstriped jacket with crisp edges.

The last time Eggsy saw the fabric, it had been nothing more than a swatch pinned to the canvassed mock-up. He was a bit dubious as to how Ector, a spit of a seventy-year-old man, would turn proverbial straw into gold. Eggsy said nothing because Harry trusted this tailor implicitly.  

Now here it hangs in front of him and waiting for Eggsy to don it. “Will it fit?” he asks dumbly.

Harry makes an impatient sound. “Of _course_ it will fit!”

“I’ll need a shirt and tie,” Eggsy mentions, unable to take his eyes off the bag. “And proper shoes.”

A warm hand clasps the back of his neck. “All taken care of,” the other man whispers before he presses his lips to the lad’s damp hair and leaves to give him privacy.

Alone in the bathroom, Eggsy goes through the motions of getting ready. It seems like ages ago when he was doing the exact thing back at his flat—before Kingsman and before Harry was more than just a friend. How different his life has become since the other man breezed into it; how different and wondrous.

He takes a moment to view the suit on his own; feeling the fabric on the pads of his fingers and admiring how it looks against his skin. Pulling the bag’s zipper down further, Eggsy watches as the heavy plastic falls off the hanger and onto the bathroom floor.

“The suit,” Harry told him one afternoon while they walked passed a nameless tailor shop, “is the modern gentleman’s armor.”

Eggsy recalls snorting at him. “Are you my knight come to save me?” he teased, laughing when his boyfriend rolled his eyes.

Now here he was.

He dresses in silence, mindful of how he slips into the garment. Eggsy is just finishing with the buttons on his shirt when Harry knocks and enters.

“Look at you,” he says, awestruck and fond as he shuts the door behind him.

“I haven’t gotten the jacket on yet,” the younger man points out. He wiggles his sock-covered toes. “Or my shoes.”

Harry ignores him, taking a step closer until he is able to brush his hands over the width of Eggsy’s shoulders and soothes the fabric. “This is better than I hoped for,” he comments, lifting his eyes with a smile.

“Just wait until I spill something on it.”

“That is precisely why there are dry cleaners, my darling boy,” Harry counters as he thumbs the tip of Eggsy’s nose. He raises eyebrows and reaches into his jacket pocket. “Do you remember what I asked you?”

Eggsy swallows as he watches his boyfriend pull his hand and opens it, revealing two gold cufflinks resting on his palm. “Yes.”

“Wear these,” Harry says. He places them on each of Eggsy’s sleeves, kissing the knuckles on both hands when he’s finished. “And know that everything I have done and will do has been to keep you safe.”

Panic sweeps through Eggsy; before he can ask what Harry means, Gawain interrupts them. It’s clear that they mustn’t keep Chester waiting any longer.

 

* * *

 

The drawing room faces a lake on the mansion grounds, made visible by the picture windows.

One of which Chester stands in front of. He is holding a glass of brandy and quite taken with the scenery when Eggsy and Harry enter the room behind Gawain.

“Sir,” the man says, earning Chester’s attention. He makes an introductory gesture and quickly departs.

The old man levels his stare at Eggsy, taking in his ill appearance; it’s clear that no matter how stylish one’s attire is, it cannot hide poor health. Chester takes a sip of his brandy. “It seems that you have recovered from your escapade,” he comments.

“I would hardly say he’s recovered,” Harry counters. Eggsy notices the edge to his boyfriend’s tone, similar to the night that Charlie attacked him.

Chester purses his lips together, effectively ignoring his fellow knight. “How do you feel, Mr. Unwin?”

“Fine, I suppose,” Eggsy answers. “Gawain said you wanted to see us, sir?”

The old man finishes his brandy and nods. “Sit down,” he tells them, gesturing towards a settee and two winged back armchairs surrounding a coffee table. Chester makes himself comfortable on the settee, where he pours himself and his guests glasses of brandy. 

The silence of the tense variety fills the room until Chester speaks. “That is a nice suit,” he says. “Bespoke, am I correct?”

“Yes sir,” Eggsy replies, glancing at Harry. “It was a gift.”

Chester nods. “From Harry, if I’m not mistaken. Let me guess; this is Ector’s handiwork.”

“You are correct,” Harry says.

Chester makes a satisfied sound and goes to set his glass down on the table. A wooden box, finely crafted and old by the looks of it, rests within his reach. “Bravo,” Chester announces with a smile. “It pains me to admit it, Eggsy, but one day, you might be as good a gentleman as any of them. Even Harry, here.” He opens the box, removing a modified Tokarev TT-30 pistol.

Eggsy feels his entire stiffen the moment he lays eyes on the weapon. His eyes flicker to his boyfriend, who remains calm and collected as Chester points the weapon to the fireplace. It seems he may fire it until he offers the pistol to Eggsy.

“Take it,” he says.

Giving Harry an uncertain look, he complies. It’s heavier than he expected, not that Eggsy has much experience with them in the first place. He inspects it, taking in the craftsmanship from another era, while both Chester and Harry observe him.

Chester clears his throat, giving Eggsy reason to look up. Chester gives him another smile, a secretive one with malice hidden under its folds. “Do you know how to hold one?” he asks. When Eggsy shakes his head, Chester stands up and goes to him, where he assists showing the lad the proper way to use the pistol. “Like this.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says, softly. “Thank you, sir.”

Chester makes a noncommittal sound as he navigates the young man’s arm until it’s aimed at the person sitting across from him. “Now shoot Harry,” he states.

He would nearly drop the thing if Chester wasn’t keeping it in his hand. Eggsy stares up at Chester, stunned and confused. “What?”

“Shoot Harry,” the old man repeats.

Eggsy turns to his boyfriend, swallowing down the scream building in his throat. What he expects to find is not what is shown to him; Harry remains calm and doesn’t flinch at Chester’s words nor does he even sweat as the barrel of the pistol is aimed at him.

“Darling,” the other man calls. “It’s alright.”

He mouths Harry’s name, unable to keep the tears at bay. “You’re mad,” Eggsy whispers.

“Is it because you love him?” Chester asks.

“What the fuck do you think, bruv?” the lad snaps, wondering how someone could be so vile.

A chuckle escapes the old man, close enough to make Eggsy’s skin crawl. “You trust Harry, don’t you?” He tightens his grip, squeezing the lad’s fingers into the handle’s grooves. Chester moves his mouth to the boy’s ear. “You trust him with your life.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy snarls.

It doesn’t faze Chester, a man of manners and impeccable breeding. “Well, you shouldn’t.” He turns his head, delighting at the lad’s glare. “Did you know that your father was a candidate?”

“You _are_ mad!” he hisses, deepening his expression. “You’re a fucking nutter! My dad wouldn’t have _anything_ to do with the likes of you, tosser!”

His diatribe is met with another stomach knotting smile. “He even made it as far as you. Well… _almost_ ,” Chester continues. He chuckles once again. “Lee never got to this part. He was dead before then. Do you know why?”

“Because an electrical fire burned down our apartment.”

“That’s what _you_ were made to believe, Eggsy,” the old man counters, mockingly. “That’s what _everyone_ was made to think.” He pats the lad’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “We offered him the world. A privileged life for him and his family; Lee was Harry’s candidate and very well liked amongst us. So young and intelligent and eager to do well by his wife and young son…if only he didn’t falter.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “You’re lying.”

“Tell him, Harry,” Chester orders, turning suddenly with a serious, if not angry expression. “Or do you want me to then? To tell Mr. Unwin how you deceived and entrapped him?”

Harry’s eyes leave Eggsy’s face to focus on Chester. “Only if you truly wish it,” he says, coolly. The old coot must nod for he sighs. “I did know your father, as I told you when we first met, but it wasn’t from the Marines. By the time he joined, I had already paid my dues and was attending law school.”

He feels like he’s been slapped across the face. “But you said…” Eggsy chokes as hot tears fall down his cheeks.

“I wasn’t allowed to tell you the truth of my acquaintance with your father,” Harry states, “not until after you joined Kingsman. I would have told you then.”

Chester roars with laughter. “He’s still lying to you, Eggsy,” he taunts. “Ask him about the night your parents died and why it came to pass.”

“He doesn’t know,” the boy replies, pleadingly.

“I ordered it,” Chester says, gleefully. He digs his fingernails into the fabric of Eggsy’s suit. “I found out that your father was about to inform on our organization. It used to be that our candidates were privy to more secrets than they are now all because of dear, old dad. What he saw didn’t agree with his sensibilities and he agreed to tell someone at MI-6 in exchange for protection. Do you remember anything about him, Eggsy? How your dad would lock himself in the bathroom to take a late night call? Or when he’d disappear and go down to the pub?”

Shuddering, Eggsy swallows back a sob. “No.”

“He was going to forswear the very blood oath you made the evening you were initiated into candidacy,” Chester continues. “So I asked a favor of another knight, a man who is now dead. You might have heard of his murder in Hyde Park; a gentleman who was nearly decapitated with a garrote.” He laughs as Eggsy begins to shake in silent answer. “Thought so.”

Eggsy closes his eyes as a sob escapes his mouth. It makes a moment for him to compose himself, but by some miracle he does. “What are you saying, then?” he asks. “That he murdered my parents?”

“Well yes,” Chester says, very matter-of-factly. “He was supposed to murder you, too, but something stopped him. _Someone_.”

For reasons unknown to him, Eggsy follows the old man’s gaze to Harry. He watches as his boyfriend’s calm demeanor melts away, revealing the paleness of realization and secrets now told.

“The newspaper reports said you told the investigators that an angel in black was the one who brought you to safety,” the knight recalls while Eggsy’s heart shatters inside of his chest. “It was no angel, my boy.” Chester’s fingers twitch against his suit jacket. “But the man sitting right in front of you.”

He closes his eyes, trying to simultaneously recall that night and block Chester’s gloating out. The latter becomes white noise as the former appears in his mind—the starless sky, the chilly air with forthcoming rain, the crackle of flames as they licked at the night.

It slowly forms from a grainy memory to a sharp image. He recalls walking into the hallway with his teddy bear clutched to his chest. The heavy scent of smoke had woken him and like any young child, Eggsy padded towards his parents’ bedroom.

He hadn’t known the myriad of colors filled the usually darkened are was the fire and stole the five-year-old’s attention, diverting him from his original task. He stepped foot into the living room to find a man coming through the front door, his featured concealed by the backlight from the street lamps below.

The man, an angel he once thought, called his name and rushed to him, scooping Eggsy up into his arms before taking him outside. He held Eggsy so closely and tightly to his chest, keeping the boy’s head pressed into the curve of his shoulder.

Sirens had begun to pierce the air, by then. It was only a matter of time before onlookers would converge in front of the chaos. The angel set him down on the ground to inspect him when the fire brigade showed up. He touched Eggsy’s cheek and disappeared into the night, leaving the boy for the authorities and with a dicey tale of a mysterious man who saved his life.

Now that Chester has revealed his hand in the death of parents, something unlocks inside of Eggsy’s mind. A pair of eye warm brown eyes and a sad, dimpled smile that managed to imprint until his five-year-old self before being locked away for seventeen years.

“No,” Eggsy whimpers, shaking his head furiously. “No, Harry, no. Please, no!”

Harry opens his mouth to speak when Chester cackles in the face of their mutual pain. “Tell him, Harry! Tell him it was you who rushed to their home, only to be too late for his mum and dad! That you came at precisely the right time to spare him from James!” His voice rises in volume, accompanied by spit and a crimson face. “Tell him what you did after!”

“Stop!” the lad shouts, sobbing so heavily that he can’t stop the quaking of his own body.

Through fuzzy vision, he sees Harry frowning at Chester. “That is enough!”

“Hardly!” the other man counters, his sour breath creeping under Eggsy’s nostrils. “The lad has the right to know! He _should_ understand what type of person he’s fallen in love with. That you’ve been trying to make up for not arriving soon enough. For being the one to give him the life his father would have given him had he lived!”

Eggsy’s wails cannot drown out the old man’s blistering truths. “No!” he cries. “No! I don’t want to hear it! Stop him, Harry!”

“Chester!” Harry snarls. He looks like he’s about to pounce the man with the way his body draws up as if he was a predator. “If you say…”

He never finished his threat.  “For the past seventeen years,” Chester begins as a moment of calm overcome him, “the great Harry Hart has been your benefactor.”

If there were a way to describe having one’s world come crashing down all around them, Eggsy would do so. Instead, his entire body seems to freeze at the revelation while his eyes widen and his ears ring. He stares at Harry, so thunderstruck, Eggsy doesn’t think he can move.

“I wanted to tell you,” his boyfriend quickly admits. “Eggsy, I wanted to tell you…”

He hears the gunshot go off before Eggsy realizes he’s pulled the trigger.

Smoke curls in front of him, momentarily blocking Harry from view until it fades into nothing. There is no terrifying second of which Eggsy believes he’s murdered the other man, just the numbness of betrayal.

Harry stares back at him, baffled by the turn of events and of how the gun was loaded with blanks. They continue to fixate on one another until Chester’s voice cuts in.

“Well,” he says, sounding surprised as he lets go of Eggsy’s shoulder to fetch his brandy, “you have certainly exceeded expectations.”

In a flash Eggsy launches himself at Chester, knocking the man to the ground before he can even bring the glass to his lips. The brandy spills upon the carpet as the lad straddles his torso and begins slamming the butt of the pistol onto Chester’s head.

He barely recalls the warmth of blood staining his hands or the shouts of other people entering the room. If Eggsy notices how one moment Chester’s coiffed hair is white and red the next, he hasn’t a clue. It’s as if he’s left his body and has been replaced by a demon who keeps beating the fallen knight until his face is swollen and raw.

Eggsy will never understand what it’s like to feel the sensation of wanting to snuff out another’s life. He will never remember the taste of bloodlust upon his lips or know what it’s like to give into the primal urge to kill. His entire sense of self is gone as Merlin and Harry pull him from Chester, dragging him out as others swarm the room.

No, Eggsy will remember none of that; just the screams that rip themselves from his throat and pierce the sky above until he remembers no more.

 

* * *

 

He’s taken to the hospital for exhaustion and wakes up in an all too impersonal room.

The first few days are spent resting or being clucked over by the medical staff. Eggsy takes it in stride, allowing them to do whatever they need to do. When they aren’t there, a nameless MI-6 agent is posted just outside his door. Sometimes they greet him, but mostly the agents avoid any interactions.

Except for Harry.

His benefactor, savior, and boyfriend—once three separate identities are now one in the same. Eggsy spent years wondering about the first two, these faceless entities that plucked him from obscurity and Death’s reach who never revealed themselves.

Now that’s changed, as Harry confirms during a rare moment they’re alone. “It’s time I tell you the truth,” he says once he’s taken a seat near the bed.

It’s a grey afternoon. Eggsy turns on his side to face away from Harry because he can’t bring himself to look for fear of his heart shattering into pieces.

“We have been investigating them for years,” Harry begins. “Longer than I’ve been with the division. There were always rumors of illegal arms deals, funding terrorist organizations, murder for hire, but we never had anything concrete until Chester King took notice of myself and Merlin. Our families are from a long line of British peerage—Lords, Earls, Dukes—and both of us had the right pedigree to be chosen for candidacy.”

He weaves a tale of how Harry and Merlin, childhood friends, had beaten out other candidates for the two chosen spots, thus initiating themselves into Kingsman’s ranks. In the wake of their success, the society managed to jumpstart their cover careers, though Harry is truly a barrister, something he continues to practice even after entering MI-6’s fold. Merlin’s guise was one of a computer programmer, but in reality, he’s a high ranking Quartermaster.  

It sounds like a James Bond film and Eggsy wants to say so, except all he can do is let hot tears fall down his already raw cheeks. He wonders in the moments where Harry pauses if the man is waiting for him to speak, to shout, to order him to leave the room.

None of it happens, of course. It’s motivated by curiosity and avoidance of having to address him.

“We were already in Chester’s inner circle when I met your father,” Harry continues. “I proposed your father for many reasons, but mainly his military record. He had been a sniper if you didn’t know. My uncle was his commanding officer and introduced us. When I ran the idea by Chester, he found it appealing to have a weapons man on retainer. Except Lee…he had a conscience and a family to think of.”

Harry tells him of how his father—a man Eggsy barely remembers—often spoke of his family, doing so with pride and unadulterated joy. Lee Unwin marveled at his son and loved his wife beyond all measure and he wanted to provide them with a life they deserved. Several months into his candidacy, his father had been tasked to assassinate a business rival of another knight, which he had done, but not without consequence.

As soon as he returned to London, Lee went straight to Harry, his mentor and confidante. In a panic, he told him of what transpired and his fears for his wife and child. “I took your father to what I called my family’s estate just north of London; it’s really an MI-6 safe house. There, both Merlin and I revealed our true identities to him and told him that, in exchange for information and his testimony, we would do everything in our power to protect Lee,” Harry explains.

A chair leg scrapes on the linoleum floor as Harry moves closer. The faint scent of his cologne reaches Eggsy’s nostrils.

“The evening before he was to meet with my superiors, James overheard him on a phone call with me, though I daresay he had no idea who was on the other end.” His voice tapers off in those moments, wavering as it fills with emotions Eggsy hasn’t heard from him before. “He informed Chester and was ordered to take care of the problem. I learned of this over a meal at the mansion and headed straight over. By the time I arrived at your parent’s flat, they were already dead, and you…”  

A poorly concealed sob fills the room as Harry dwells upon that night all those years ago. “You were standing there with your stuffed toy and James was right behind you,” he whispers, sniffling. “Took off like a coward while I grabbed you and brought you outside. I just remember thinking that I needed to cover your eyes somehow so you wouldn’t see.”

“Chester left things alone once it became apparent you couldn’t recall details from that night, but I felt sick to my very soul. I had failed your father and the promise I made him. The life you _should have_ had was gone and you were left an orphan as a result of my mistake. I decided to be your benefactor so I could give you the opportunities your father wanted for you,” he says more calmly. “And when I finally could, I avenged Lee’s death. I confronted James the day we finally introduced ourselves; I was actually at the National Gallery to confirm the kill with Merlin when I saw you.”

Eggsy bites his lip to keep from crying out as he closes his eyes. The tears burn while he thinks of that day. The day Harry became someone with a name and a connection to his past. The day Eggsy slowly fell in love with him.

“I never expected to meet you, Eggsy,” Harry tells him, pleadingly, “Or to love you.” The heat from his hand radiates to a portion of the lad’s arm where his hospital gown doesn’t cover it. “I am so sorry, my darling boy, for all the pain I’ve caused you. Please forgive me.”

He presses his face into the pillow where he chokes on a sob. Another one follows and another until Eggsy breaks down as he’s done in the entire time he’s been in the hospital.

When he eventually turns over, his eyelids swollen and bloodshot, Harry is gone.

 

* * *

 

Percival Morton comes crashing in, as he’s wont to do.

He later learns that one of Roxy and Percy’s uncles is a higher-up at MI-6 who informed them of their friend’s involvement in a case, leading the Mortons to rally behind Eggsy as quickly as possible. Percy makes his presence known with his fancy three-piece suit and leather briefcase as he declares himself Eggsy’s representation. “Any additional questioning must be approved by me,” he says as he hands a very surprised Merlin and another agent two of his business cards.

Eggsy watches the scene unfold in numbed amusement while Merlin regains his voice. “And who the hell are you?” he barks, scowling.

“Percival Morton, esquire, of DLA Piper,” Percy announces, puffing out his chest and using all his height to attempt to tower over Merlin. He gives the MI-6 agent a knowing smile. “It is Mr. Unwin’s right as a citizen of the United Kingdom to have legal representation and I am here doing just that.”

It takes all of two minutes for Percy to shoo everyone from Eggsy’s room. Setting his briefcase down on a table beside the bed, the elder Morton makes himself comfortable. Percy pats the lad’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What do you need?” he asks.

If Eggsy were to look up, he’d undoubtedly find the same expression he’s seen on Roxy’s face countless times. That look of concern darkening her eyes and drawing her mouth into a thin line; it’s mirroring itself in Percy just like many things his best mate does.

Tired and ill, Eggsy stares at the hospital blanket between his fingers as tears sit upon his waterline, ready to fall a moment’s notice, before finally speaking. “I want to go home,” he says without bothering to glance up.

He never has to tell Percy that he means Wales; it’s already a given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the mix to this fic, go [here](http://8tracks.com/boldly/like-two-strangers-turning-into-dust). I wrote the latter part of the chapter to ["I Was Never Going to Africa" by Abel Korzeniowski](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZWne89Xou4) and ["Burn" by Cody Crump](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2oJ54ShzMA).
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! xx


	5. coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bre deserves all of the hugs for betaing this and for putting up with me in general. Thank you to Leah, Mo, ChristianCat, and Dommi for cheerleading efforts. 
> 
> **Author's Warning:** This chapter has: homophobic slurs, mentions of infant death, suicide, semi-decent Dean, and a homage to _Great Expectations_ , which I'm sure Mr. Dickens won't mind because he's dead.

Eggsy leaves London abruptly and under a shroud of secrecy.

It’s done within the five-minute interval it takes for the MI-6 agent to get his coffee. Like a common criminal, Eggsy slips out of his hospital room and meets Percival in the parking garage. A bag of his things rests in the backseat.

“I went by your flat,” Percy offers as Eggsy buckles in and smiles when the lad nods before driving.

They make the near five-hour trek to Tremadog in silence except for the woman’s voice coming from the navigation system. Percy sticks to his task while Eggsy rests his head against the passenger side window, watching as London fades from view and becomes Reading, Swindon, Cirencester, and so on.

Every kilometer puts distance between himself and Harry; it’s just as well since just being near him makes it difficult for Eggsy to process everything’s that happened.

He must have dozed off at some point, for Percy’s voice startles him awake. “Now,” his friend says as Eggsy realizes they are parked in front of his childhood home, “it is within your legal right to leave MI-6’s custody since they were not detaining you. I filed a motion to bar them from dragging you back to London, as the wire recording of Mr. King is enough evidence for them to indict.”

Eggsy nods slowly as he stares past his friend to the brick exterior of the house. It looks no different from the last time he was here; still the same cold and empty place he comes every Christmas. Except now it’s the only refuge he has, and knowing that is like being cut in two. “What if they want me to testify?”

“It can be done through video testimony. You won’t have to go back to London unless you want to,” Percy assures him with a wan smile.

He swallows the emptiness down and shakes his head as he looks at his hands, still battered from pummeling Chester. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Well,” Percy sighs. He’s trying to be understanding while trying not push the subject any further. “Do you want me to send some of your things? Forward the mail?” He makes a concerned noise when Eggsy shakes his head again and refuses to lift his eyes. “What about your cello?”

Eggsy forces himself to shrug. “I guess.” A hand reaches over and squeezes his nape. It earns a forced grin and eye contact, though Eggsy would much rather go lie down.

“Let’s get you inside,” Percy suggests as if he’s read his mind.

Eggsy begs off his friend’s offer to help him into the house once they are standing on the front stoop. “I’ll be fine,” he insists as he digs the keys out of his coat pocket.

“Are you certain? I can wait with you until your uncle gets home.”

“Nah,” he replies while fiddling with the lock. The door opens, revealing the tidy foray of the house. “Besides, he’s not too keen on unexpected visitors.”

Percy shifts from one leg to the other, concern written all over his face. It seems like he wants to tell Eggsy something; an apology, perhaps? Some sage advice on recovering from a broken heart? 

“Okay then,” he says. He pulls Eggsy into a comforting embrace. “You call me or Roxy if you need anything, alright? Anything at all, Unwin!”

He returns the hug while trying to hold back tears. “I know,” Eggsy croaks, feeling one of them make its way down his cheek. With a shudder, he buries his face into Percy’s shoulder. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing, bruv.”

“You _are_ ,” Percy assures as he pulls back. “You’re doing the right thing; you hear me?” He playfully nudges Eggsy’s chin. “If one of us calls, you pick up or you’ll find us on your doorstep. Do not underestimate a Morton.”

He laughs wetly. “I won’t,” Eggsy tells him. “I’ll call Rox once I’ve had a chance to sleep, yeah?”

“ _Good_ ,” the other man says. “I’ll text you when I’m back in London. Take care of yourself, Unwin.”

And like that, Percy walks back to his car and gets inside. Eggsy watches his departure and tracks him until he’s turned a corner, disappearing around some hedges. In that moment, the feeling of being alone sinks into the pit of Eggsy’s stomach and he nearly calls Percy back.

Having company is the last thing he truly wants right now, he realizes as he trudges into the house and locks the front door behind him. He scans his immediate surroundings, noting the silence and lack of presence of his uncle. “‘Lo?” Eggsy calls out while removing his coat and works off his trainers.

No one replies back, not that he really expects it.

Eggsy climbs the stairs to the second floor, wondering if anything else has changed as much as he within the last four days. Weariness settles into his bones like darkness taking hold and sinking its claws into him. It follows him all the way into his bedroom, where he dumps the bag Percy packed for him by the door and heads straight to his bed.

Folding back the comforter, Eggsy notes the sheets have been changed since he left and climbs in between them. He pulls the bedclothes over him, shutting out the world at large, and sleeps.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the door to his bedroom opening lulls Eggsy back, even if it’s temporary.

It creaks under the weight of movement, followed by footsteps stopping at the threshold. There is no doubt in the lad’s half-conscious mind that it’s Dean. He must have seen Eggsy’s coat and trainers in the foray upon coming home and is now investigating his nephew’s surprise visit.

His uncle takes several steps closer, grunting at the sight of the hospital band still fastened to Eggsy’s wrist and his haggard appearance.

Not that any of it matters, Eggsy reckons as he drifts off. He’s far too gone to be saved anyways.

 

* * *

 

He spends his first weeks in Wales in seclusion.

Whether it be within the walls of his bedroom or walking down to the quiet beaches of Cardigan Bay for fresh air, Eggsy is content to be alone.

The stabbing pain of multiple betrayals is upsetting enough without having people hovering around him. It makes it easier to field phone calls from Roxy and Percy, for the distance between them creates a barrier. Eggsy can keep them at arm’s length when they attempt to press for further detail of how he’s doing.

Quite frankly, he’s feeling like crap and can imagine the displeasure of his friends if they knew. They must know as Eggsy—in his manner and expression—is incredibly transparent with his feelings.

He can’t confide to them that being awake brings forth a type of despondency he hasn’t experienced before. Not even when he and Charlie broke up did going through the motions of living hurt this badly. A distinct heaviness settles into Eggsy, leaving a Harry-shaped hole where his heart should be. His thoughts are consumed by him whether or not the lad is sleeping; Harry Hart is haunting him.

His presence is everywhere Eggsy goes, even places he’s certain the man has never been. The sand-covered dunes along the bay, forest-enclosed walking trails of Snowdonia, and the moors just beyond the reaches of Tremadog…surroundings once familiar in the lad’s eyes are now forever changed.

The wind brings Harry’s voice, like a whisper fading as quickly as it came, or how the fog rests upon the water in the mornings, reminding Eggsy of all the times he found Harry drinking his tea with a backdrop of grey light bringing out the amber tones of his eyes.

Even his cello, which arrives a fortnight after its owner, is tucked away into a corner of Eggsy’s room, untouched and gathering dust.

Little things that don’t make sense and yet burden Eggsy all the same. He never says a word about it because, honestly, there is nothing left to say.

The wounds have been inflicted and leave invisible scars for only him to know about.

 

* * *

 

The chill of winter gives way to spring when Chester King dies of a heart attack.

Percy is the one who tells Eggsy, phoning him minutes after the bastard’s attorneys confirm it. It’s a rainy afternoon and he’s been staring at a blank television screen. The remote lies upon a nearby cushion, literally centimeters from his fingertips, but the effort isn’t there.

Eggsy doesn’t hear his mobile going off and is surprised to find Dean lumbering into the living room with it in hand. “Here,” he says, thrusting it into Eggsy’s possession and wandering off.

On the screen are several missed calls, including two from Percy. As he goes to punch in his passcode, Eggsy thinks of how none of them are ever Harry and nor will they be.

He’s just another MI-6 ghost; fitting if the lad really dwells on it.

Percy picks up on the first ring, sounding breathless as he says, “About fucking time! Don’t you put your ringer on like the rest of us?”

“I was downstairs,” Eggsy replies, catatonically.

An annoyed grunt comes through the speaker. “Well, I hope you’re sitting down because I have some shit news for you.”

“Are they making me come back?” he asks as a dull surge of panic rises up. “You said—”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Percy quickly says, quelling Eggsy’s fears. “Chester King is dead.”

Those four words slam into him at the velocity of the blank he fired at Harry’s face. As his lungs deflate, black spots dance in his vision. “W-wh-what?” he stutters. Sucking in oxygen, Eggsy finds his voice within his reach even if it’s hoarse. “What do you mean he’s dead?”

“He and his legal team were meeting with MI-6 to see if a deal could be made in exchange for less time in prison or, perhaps, house arrest,” Percy begins to explain. “When it became clear that our friends weren’t interested and Chester was about it have his legacy tarnished, the old coot had a massive heart attack. Never even made it to the hospital.”

His fingers tighten around his mobile, squeezing until the case is digging into the skin. “He can’t be dead,” Eggsy rasps. “There must be a mistake, Percy. What if he’s trying to fake it so he can leave the country…”

There’s absolutely no way Chester King get off that easily. For all of the destruction he’s orchestrated and had a hand in, he deserves the harshest punishment allowed. All the suffering he inflicted will be given back tenfold and Eggsy will get to watch in satisfaction.

That’s how this is _supposed_ to end.

“Eggsy,” his friend states as if he was standing right in front of him and shaking his shoulders. “It’s no ruse; he’s dead. MI-6 and his attorneys confirmed it.”

A tide of frantic emotions surges and gives way to hysteria; the very thing that’s already taken hold of Eggsy once before. “They’re fucking wrong then,” he hisses into the phone as he presses the heel of his palm into his forehead. An ache is forming, pulsing with his heartbeat. “He bought them off, Percy. Did they let you see the body? Did they?”

“I promise you,” Percy begins to say before Eggsy cuts him off.

“Well, did they? Did they show you the fucking body, Percy, or did they just ring you up to say so?” he shouts, uncaring if Dean or, better yet, the neighbors, hear him. He begins pacing the living room, knocking things over with each turn. “You have to see the body; tell them you want to see it.”

Percy tells him something, though it’s entirely lost upon Eggsy. He’s screaming into the mobile’s microphone, insisting that his friend is wrong and they’re being lied to. No matter how many times he’s contradicted, he knows Kingsman and what they are capable of murder, destruction, ruin.

He’s raving incoherently when the mobile falls from his grip and lands with a clatter near the sofa. It’s forgotten as Eggsy charges up to his bedroom, slamming the door so hard it makes the walls shake. Blind with rage he grabs the nearest object within reach, hurling it towards a framed photograph hung near his desk. It shatters the glass panel, sending shards everywhere.

Eggsy doesn’t stop there.

Anything that is easy to lift and accessible, he chucks it with no thought of the consequences. Eggsy finds an old cricket bat hidden between a bookcase and the corner of his room before grabbing it. He swings at everything in his path, ignoring the crash and breakage over his shrieking.

Eggsy spots his cello, standing beside his bed and still in its traveling case. Seeing it there brings Harry to mind; it was his money that purchased the instrument, after all.

Harry, who swore to do his best to protect him and asked Eggsy to trust him. The very same man with his two faces: the barrister whom Eggsy fell in love with it and the MI-6 agent who played him all along. 

A man who abused his power over the lad and lied the entire time.

With a yell and the bat raised, Eggsy charges the cello until someone grabs him from behind, effectively pinning his arms to his sides. He struggles against them; they’re keeping him from ruining the one thing that will allow Eggsy to even the score between him and Harry.

“Drop the bat, boy!” Dean grunts. “Drop it!”

“Fuck you!” Eggsy snarls. “Get the fuck off me! Let me at it!”

His uncle does no such thing and only holds onto the lad more tightly. “I said drop it!” Dean orders.

“I want to smash it,” Eggsy yells, ignoring the tears and snot wetting his face. He kicks his legs up in an effort to throw his uncle off balance, but only causes them to crash to the floor. “I want to smash his face in! Let me do it!”

Under him, Dean wraps his arms around Eggsy’s middle and uses all of his body weight to keep them in place. He grunts from being hit in the stomach by a wayward elbow. “Eggsy, don’t do it,” he urges. “You don’t want to do this.”

“He ruined _everything_!” Eggsy cries, still squirming in Dean’s grip. The cello still stands in his vision, untouched by his rage and hurt. Eggsy wants it smashed into pieces so he can mail them back one by one to Harry, to inflict the same stabbing pain he’s feeling upon him. “He killed them to protect his own arse!”

Eggsy swings the bat to find it pulled away from him and tossed out of reach. Dean grabs his wrists, pressing them together as he hauls both of them to their feet until they’re backed against the wall. The delicate skin chafes as Eggsy tries to fight his uncle off. He continues kicking and screaming until there is a moment where Dean’s voice breaks through the hurricane of emotions.

“If you do this, you’ll be just like ‘im, Gary,” Dean whispers into his ear. It’s strange to hear his given name roll off his uncle’s tongue; a thing seldom said and only if he was in trouble. Eggsy can only recall a handful of times he’s ever heard it uttered. “Destroyin’ the thing you love most; is that what you want? To be like ‘im?”

Dean’s words are like a pin that punctures the fight left inside of Eggsy. He slumps into the awkward embrace as tears roll down his cheeks. His room is a mess; fragments of his belongs strewn about where he hasn’t smashed them to pieces.

His chin trembles at the sight of his cello, somehow unscathed because of Dean’s intervention. Eggsy stares at it and realizes how terribly close he came to wrecking it; an object that’s only brought good to his life.

It gave him a way out of Tremadog, leading him down the road to a successful and lucrative career and a life his parents would have wanted for him.

“Eggsy,” Dean says, giving him a gentle shake. “Do you hear me, boy?”

He nods, loosening the sob that’s been growing in his throat since Percy phoned him. The one filled with a myriad of emotions—disbelief, anger, sadness—that Eggsy is unable to understand.

“I don’t know what you’re angry ‘bout,” his uncle whispers, “but I know you don’t want to do this.”

Eggsy hangs his head over his lap, shoulders shaking as the first sob escapes through his parted lips. It’s quiet at first, possibly too quiet for Dean to hear. Another follows with an unbroken stream on its heels. He bends forward, as far as his uncle’s grip will allow, and presses his palms to his face, wholly overwhelmed by the sheer force of it.

Grief sweeps over him, bringing forth all of the emotions he fought to keep at bay. Eggsy allows them to take hold of him, gradually seeping inside and unlocking the isolation he’s put himself in. Each tear becomes all of the hurt, the pain, and despair that’s been building since Eggsy left London; possibly longer than that.

“It’s okay,” Dean intones as he shifts their position and holds his nephew to his chest. Unsure fingers card through his hair, brushing it away from his face. “It’s alright. Shh, everything’s okay, Eggsy.”

As they sit on his bedroom floor, he latches onto his uncle like his life depends on it. Each mournful sound that pierces the air shakes Eggsy to his very core, rattling bones and memories alike. Dean holds his nephew’s head to his shoulder, keeping it there while the rest of him convulses.

How long they stay like that, Eggsy doesn’t know; only by the end of it, he’s too wrung out to care.

Hours later when his room has been cleaned up and all of the broken things put in the rubbish, Eggsy rests in bed. He stares out the window towards the moon, half hidden by clouds, and the silver illumination coming from it and touching everything in its path. If he were to sit up, Eggsy would see it upon the rooftops of neighboring houses, perhaps all the way to the moors.

Instead, he doesn’t move.

The afternoon has taken a lot out of him, both mentally and emotionally, and not even Dean—an innocent bystander in all this—attempted to get some answers. He’s downstairs now, puttering about after hiding the cricket bat and making them some supper. They had eaten in silence as they normally did, though an understanding lingered between them.

A blue-hued light comes from his mobile, turning Eggsy’s attention towards the device where he finds a text message from Roxy. With a heavy sigh, he swings his legs over the side of the bed to sit up and unlock the screen to read it.

 _Percy told me what happened,_ it says. _Are you alright?_

Eggsy glances at his cello, still standing at the foot of his bed. He hasn’t touched it in the two months he’s been back in Wales. Only hours ago, he nearly destroyed it for reasons he isn’t even sure of. Perhaps it was the rage from hearing of Chester’s escape of his crimes or Eggsy’s own pent-up grief.

As his eyes roam over the case, Eggsy realizes that he’s giving Chester exactly what he wanted when he was still alive—the satisfaction of getting under his skin. All of the Kingsman members have infiltrated the deepest recesses of himself to slowly tarnish everything he’s worked for.

Except for Harry, who sought to raise him up and give Eggsy the life his father had dreamt for him. He cares for him, more than he’s willing to admit, though Harry’s act of extreme dishonesty —no matter how good his intentions were—overshadows all that.

So, no he’s far from alright; at least he can accept it because better late than never as the saying goes like it’s that type of movie. Looking back to his mobile, Eggsy shakes his head as he types, _no, I’m not_ and hits send.

 

* * *

 

Dean keeps a watchful eye on him, which is disconcerting, to say the least.

For someone who has always kept Eggsy at arm’s length, neither cruel nor kind, to have them suddenly taking a keen interest in one’s activities. He makes overtures to ask his nephew to watch the telly with him during the evenings or accompanies Eggsy on his walks, lumbering several paces behind. Never too close or too far away, a safe distance as always and yet, not entirely.

Eggsy suspects Dean might be concerned about more property damage or fueling the local gossip mill with their private business. The people of their neighborhood have always regarded the lad with a certain sense of awe, jealousy, or sympathy. He has never been just Eggsy, but the Unwin Boy; the mothers would cluck to their children when they told them to be friendly.

 _He’s lost his mum and dad,_ they’d say with good intentions and when they thought Eggsy wouldn’t overhear. _You should invite him to play; he’s had to leave all of his old mates back in London._

The neighborhood children included them in their games—that’s how he met Ryan and Jamal—but Eggsy never fit in. His inclinations were mostly musical related and preferred practicing on an instrument rather than going out. It led to him being pushed into lockers while someone hissed, “Think you’re better than us, Unwin?” before his two mates quickly jumped to his defense.

As an adult, people still view Eggsy was an outsider. He’s the person they whisper about—the local legend and golden boy. The chap who entered the world of classical music, taking it by storm and only coming back to Tremadog for the holidays.

Eggsy has become used to the scrutiny, even now as he picks at the remnants of his Shepherd’s Pie. He’s sitting at a table with Dean and his mates while they watch the football match on the telly, all of them ignoring his presence as they tend to do. Every so often, he catches his uncle looking at him out the corner of his eye.

It’s par for the course, he guesses, since he _did_ go after his cello with a cricket bat.

“Oy,” one of Dean’s mates calls from across the table. Eggsy don’t think much of it because he’s surrounded by five other men. A foot makes contact with his shin, startling the lad as his fork tables against the flatware with a loud clatter. Eggsy lifts his eyes to the owner of the voice. Rottweiler or Poodle, he thinks his nickname is—something after a dog and which is in fact, insulting to all _Canis lupus familiaris_. He’s a skinny, knobby man with beady eyes and more height than common sense.

“Yeah, bruv, I’m talkin’ to you,” he snarls, exposing the crooked line of his teeth. “Think you can sit ‘ere and ignore us the entire time? Like we ain’t good enough for your attention?”

The lad rolls his eyes and ignores him by going back to his meal. He’s not even hungry, but pushing his food around the plate is far more entertaining than football.

“Fuckin’ posh wanker,” the other man hisses. He leans over the table and pulls the fork from Eggsy’s hand, tossing it over his shoulder. “Oy, you think you can ignore me, bruv, and I won’t do nothing just because Dean’s your fuckin’ uncle?”

Eggsy sighs and leans back into the booth. “Pretty much, yeah,” he replies with a shrug and a lazy grin.

“Leave it, Rottweiler,” Dean says.

Rottweiler snorts. “Leave it? This bloke comes waltzin’ back into your house like he owns the fuckin’ place and ain’t done shit since he’s been back.” He turns to Eggsy. “What have _you_ done that makes you so much better than us, hm? You’s outstayed your welcome, Mugsy.”

“Funny, I don’t recall you being my uncle,” Eggsy fires back, keeping his voice calm. “And if Dean wants me to go, he’ll say so.” He hears Dean’s grunt of agreement and smiles. “See? I think he likes the company.”

His uncle’s drinking buddy reaches over, grabbing the lad by the sleeve as he raises his fist. “Fuckin’ violin playin’ faggot!” he yells, ready to punch him.

“That’s a fuckin’ ‘nough!” Dean’s voice booms. He’s on his feet and turning scarlet as he fists the front of Rottweiler’s shirt. The effect is twofold since the other man drops his hold on Eggsy, apparently stunned by the turn of events. “I’ve put up with you gettin’ rat-arsed and startin’ brawls all around Cardigan Bay, but if I hear ‘bout you threatenin’ my nephew, I _will_ end you. Do you hear me, Rotti? I will mop the pub floor with your face!”

Everyone seated at the booth goes deathly quiet, most of them holding their beer mugs mid-sip due to the shock of Dean’s anger. Eggsy watches, mouth agape, and waits for the two men to come to blows.

“I said, did you hear me?” his uncle growls, his knuckles turning pale in conjunction with the tightening of his fist. Rottweiler nods nervously, but it’s not good enough for Dean. “Say it!”

The poor bloke winces. “I heard you,” he stammers.

“Now apologize to Eggsy.” Dean lets go of Rottweiler with a shove, watching him with a glare as the bloke straightens his appearance and begrudgingly turns to Eggsy.

Rottweiler frowns when he speaks. “Sorry.”

“What about?” Eggsy inquires with more nerve than he’s felt in weeks. “That bullshite you call threats or calling me a faggot?”

The other man’s expression deepens as color blooms over his cheeks. “Both,” he mutters.

“I suppose I’ll accept it,” the lad tells Rottweiler. “Only because I don’t want my uncle getting arrested for kicking your arse.”

A rumble of snickers come from the others at the booth and continues as Rottweiler sits down, chagrined. Eggsy stays for a bit longer to be polite and leaves a little after the second quarter, walking home along the docks.

It comes as a surprise that Dean, the same man who has always been on the cusp of Eggsy’s reach, came to his defense. Perhaps his uncle feels the need to handle his nephew with extra care, not wanting to ignite another tantrum or maybe, just maybe, the news is starting to report his name alongside Kingsman’s downfall.

“Eggsy!” Dean shouts and interrupts his afternoon walk back to the house. He turns around to see his uncle hurrying up the path. Eggsy waits for him with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, avoiding eye contact as he usually does.

Dean is wheezing a bit when he finally gets to his nephew’s side. “You’re a fast little bugger, aren’t you?” he comments. Eggsy only shrugs. “Come on, want to show you something.”

The way his uncle’s tone leaves no room for argument—the finality and sternness of it aren’t tinged with malice or the hint of betrayal. So Eggsy follows him, turning away from the direction of home and towards the cemetery.  

A place he’s been a handful of times, starting with when his parents died. His mum was keen on having her and his dad buried in the family plot, where they now rest side by side. Aunt Helen joined them years later, and whenever Eggsy is home, he makes it a point to bring flowers to her grave.

He hasn’t done it since he’s been back; Eggsy finds it easier to slip into keeping to himself rather than try to function. Perhaps Dean has a tendency to be maudlin when he drinks—Eggsy never really paid much attention before—and decided that today would be a good day to visit.

Eggsy doesn’t say a word about it as he shuffles behind his uncle upon entering the cemetery. It’s still the same, quiet place that never changes. Even during Samhain festivities does it stay the same.

He prepares himself to see his parents’ graves now that he knows the truth behind their deaths and wonders how he’ll react. Will he break down or stand there like he always does, stoic and unmoved for they are vague memories of a time long passed.

“This way,” Dean mutters, heading away from the direction of the Baker plot.

“But mum and dad are over there,” Eggsy counters, stopping by a tree stump.

His uncle spares him a glance from over his shoulder. “Ain’t seein’ your mum and dad today,” Dean tells him, gruffly. “Now come on.”

They continue on for several minutes until they reach a grave with a stone bench in front of it. The grass around it is manicured and it seems that someone has recently come to visit judging by the bouquet of daisies placed on the gravestone.

Dean removes his cap and takes a seat, silently urging his nephew to do the same. “It’s ‘bout time we were honest with each other,” he says, fiddling with his hat. “Probably should have done this a while ago, but it was never the right time, yeah?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Eggsy asks quietly. “Go back to London?”

His uncle shakes his head. “That house is your home, too, no matter what Rottweiler, that fuckin’ nutter, says. He gets a bit hot-headed when he drinks, though it ain’t no excuse for him actin’ like an arse.”

“Not your fault,” Eggsy intones.

“Meh…” Dean mutters. “I haven’t been the best parental figure, I know that. Your mum would probably have my balls if she saw the way I acted towards you.” He pauses, thinking of his sister. “The thing is…”

Eggsy interrupts. “You never wanted kids,” he says, earning a stare from the other man to which he only shrugs and looks away. “It’s fine; not like you planned to be saddled with me. Life never turns out how we plan, yeah?”

“Is that what you think? That I never wanted kids? That I never wanted you?”

“Well _yeah_ ,” Eggsy replies. “You barely looked at me!” He hears Dean’s disgruntled snort. “It’s true! Sometimes I thought you forgot I was even there.”

His uncle shifts, an arm grazes against the lad’s elbow. “It’s not that I never wanted kids…or you,” he begins, stopping to find the words. Instead, he moves the bouquet from the gravestone, revealing its occupant’s name—Daisy Baker. “Before you were born, Helen and I…you'd have had an older cousin if things had turned out that way.”

Eggsy’s eyes move from the headstone to his uncle’s face, widening from the shock of it. “ _What_? How come no one ever told me?”

“Because we never talked about it, your aunt and I,” Dean says, shaking his head. “She would have been a year or two ahead of you if she had been born alive.” His eyes well up with tears as soon as he finishes his sentence. Dean goes to wipe them on his sleeve. “Daisy—that was her name—was stillborn. Somethin’ happened with the umbilical cord…never even took her first breath. Just came out without a sound.” His uncle sobs for a moment, looking away from Eggsy to compose himself. He turns back eventually, red-eyed. “Helen and I got to hold her before they took her away. Daisy was perfect, _so perfect_. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen, but she was gone before she was even ours.”

This long-buried secret slowly sinks into Eggsy’s psyche, leaving him with so many unasked questions. He’s not even sure if they are even appropriate to be uttered aloud.

“I was so angry that something’ like losin’ a child could happen,” Dean continues after a while. “Was pissed off at God for bein’ a fuckin’ louse and at the doctors for not seein’ that somethin’ was wrong. Deep down I knew there was nothin’ that could have been done, though. So I told Helen no more tryin’, I couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t bear the loss. Then you were born; this pink thing with no hair and your dad’s eyes. Helen thought it would make me change my mind, but it only broke me up even more than I already was.”

Eggsy nods. “And then my parents died,” he surmises.

“Yeah, your parents,” Dean whispers. “Helen was elated to have you. She finally got to be the mum she always wanted while I...” He stops, staring off into the distance before addressing his nephew once more. “It’s not that I never wanted you, Eggsy…it’s just...I was too afraid. I kept thinkin’, what if I lost you like I lost Daisy? What then?”

His entire body sags as his uncle’s words sink in. They explain so many years of distant behavior and wondering if he was ever truly wanted. All of the times Dean seemed to look right through him—it wasn’t about Eggsy, but a cousin he would never meet. A little girl who never had a single chance and took her father’s hopes with her untimely death.

“So there’s that,” Dean comments defeatedly. “I should have told you years ago, not that my behavior is excusable. Just said somethin’ to make it easier for you because livin’ with my demons ain’t meant for a child.”

Eggsy shrugs. “I didn’t have a bad childhood.”

“But it wasn’t an easy one either,” his uncle adds. He pats Eggsy’s arm. “Perhaps now you’ll explain to me why you came back unannounced like you was fleein’ some nasty business.”

He freezes and stares at Dean, who rolls his eyes.

“I ain’t father of the fuckin’ year, laddie, but I know when something’s not right with you,” he grumbles, shaking a finger at Eggsy. “And don’t lie to me neither! Was it that posh fuck you thought I didn’t know about? Charles or whatever his bloody name is; has he twisted you ‘bout? Got you dragged into some nonsense, did he?”

Eggsy scowls, shaking his head. “No,” he mumbles, pulling his jacket tighter around his body. “Has nothing to do with him.”

“Then why is that you haven’t touched your cello since you’ve been home, hm? When you didn’t try to smash it to pieces, that is. It’s been gatherin’ dust in your room the moment it arrived.”

“I don’t feel like playing is all.”

Dean snorts, clearly not buying Eggsy’s excuses. “Don’t feel like playing? That’s the biggest pile of bullshite if I ever heard it!” His frown deepens as they sit there. “I remember when you was a wee one. All freshly arrived from London with only your teddy until you saw the piano in the front room. Climbed upon the bench, you did, and began bangin’ away like you found the Holy Grail. Couldn’t pull you away from the blasted thing and it always ended in a fight; you cryin’, me yellin’ and Helen hollerin’ at me to stop shoutin’ at you.” He chuckles at the memory. “Then you began readin’ the old music sheets we had lyin’ about and began playin’ them.”

“I remember,” Eggsy recalls.

“I _know_ you do,” Dean huffs, seemingly annoyed. “And then there was the day you saw that battered cello at your music teacher’s house. Thought you were mad, boy, wantin’ to master that _log_!”

Eggsy laughs softly at the memory; the very first glimpse of the worn out cello, hidden behind other instruments, and the look on his uncle and teacher’s face. He had been a small boy, possibly too small to be playing such a thing, but he was also stubborn. Eggsy insisted and pressed until he got his way in the end.

“But you did,” Dean says, wistfully, “and even made me find it beautiful.” He nudges his nephew in the arm, smiling. “And you were happy, Eggsy. Never saw you happier than when you was playin’. So what happened? What’s keepin’ you from that?”

In retrospect, Eggsy knew this day would come when Dean would finally ask the question he’s been dreading for a long time. The secret he tried to keep hidden from the moment he left the hospital to seek sanctuary in Wales. He shifts uncomfortably, unable to find the words in that moment and shrugs.

“Did that benefactor of yours screw you over?” Dean asks, already defensive on his nephew’s behalf.

“No,” Eggsy answers.

Dean huffs again. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t want to go back to London.”

“What does London have to do with you playin’?” Dean barks, becoming more annoyed at Eggsy’s detachment to the subject. “Go somewhere else, then! Pick a city and go because I’ll be _damned_ if I let you waste your life here! Your parents wouldn’t want it and nor do I.”

Eggsy looks at his uncle and sees the seriousness of his expression. All this time when he thought Dean never cared, he did. It may have been done in the shadows or without grand gestures, it’s certainly clear now. “What if I want to stay here for a bit? To regroup.”

“So long as you get your arse back up on stage, fine,” Dean tells him, clapping his shoulder. “Just don’t stop playin’, alright?”

Eggsy nods as he awkwardly leans into his uncle’s hand. They’ve never been much for displays of affection and are quick to pull apart. In hindsight, it’s kind of hilarious—like a bad buddy comedy where neither of them has painful pasts. So they sit in silence, staring off into the distance where the sun looms, ready to set and end the day. “I know what _really_ happened to mum and dad,” Eggsy whispers, voice sounding tinny as it comes from his throat. It lacks all of the emotions churning in him.

He flinches at his uncle’s gasp and waits for the admonishment. It never comes, just the quiet murmur of Dean’s reply. “You do?”

The tears come, boiling at the edges of his waterline and falling down his face. “Dad tried to do the right thing,” Eggsy sobs. “He wanted to do the right thing and it got them killed!” He rubs his sleeve under his nose. “And it kept following me even when I didn’t know! My benefactor, my schooling, the auditions… _everything_ is tied to my dad.”

He breaks down on the bench, crying as the world carries on until his head aches and his cheeks are raw. Just when he thinks he’s cried all of his tears dry, Eggsy finds himself surprised.

A tentative hand touches him, squeezing his shoulder as Eggsy swallows a lungful of cool air now that he’s calmed down. “Do you want to talk about it?” his uncle asks.

Eggsy shakes his head. “Not yet. Not ever, maybe,” he admits. “But that’s why I came back. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Well, that house is your home, laddie,” Dean assures, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “You know that, yeah?”

He sniffs. “Yeah.”

Dean nods in approval, allowing the silence to fall between them once more. “The people who hurt your mum and dad,” he begins to ask, “what happened to them?”

Eggsy thinks of James, a man he never met or saw, and Chester King, who escaped his wrongdoings in thanks to Death’s intervention. “They’re dead,” he answers.

Because it’s that type of movie.

 

* * *

 

He begins giving music lessons as a favor to his old teacher.

She’s a frail, ancient thing with a shock of white hair, smaller than Eggsy remembers. How it transpires is an accidental thing; she’s going on holiday and needs someone tend to several of her cello students. He agrees to it because it’s not like he has anything better to do.

Unlike the other folks around Tremadog, she never comments on Eggsy’s sudden return.

So he goes to her studio near the center of town, which hasn’t changed from the time he was under her tutelage. It’s on the second floor of a converted boarding house, still smelling of Earl Grey tea and polished wood. The only thing that’s been updated is the upholstery on the settee in the waiting area.

During the week she’s gone, he instructs two girls and a boy. They seem to be in awe of him for the first half hour of their lessons until they open up as children are wont to do. His teaching style would probably make his instructors, professors, and LSO conductor scream in terror for it’s incredibly lackadaisical compared to them.

To Eggsy, however, it’s a nice break, to be on the fringes of his livelihood rather in the center of the storm.  

The inkling to play his own cello doesn’t itch at his fingers, nor does the instrument call to him when he returns home for the evening. It doesn’t sting as much as it used to when Eggsy looks upon the black case leaning against the wall.

Perhaps that’s something, even if it isn’t much.

 

* * *

 

It’s early summer when Eggsy touches his cello again.

He plays a Samuel Barber Adagio. The same piece he played during his audition for LSO in his bedroom and slowly becomes reacquainted with the bow and instrument’s strings once more. Even without practice or performance, Eggsy is able to pick it up as if it’s only been several hours. His ministrations flow through his uncle’s home, drifting sweetly until it comes to an end.

From then on he begins to play again, having found his reclaimed his love of the cello through teaching.

Since his music teacher’s holiday, he’s been taking on more students at her request. He enjoys it and understands why she’s kept at it for so long. The children he mentors are just as serious about their instruments when he was their age. Eggsy imagines some of them will go on to study music and perhaps become one of his colleagues.

Hopefully, they are wiser and don’t find themselves entangled with men in bespoke suits and whiskey brown eyes.

Eggsy finds that Harry Hart invades his mind at the strangest times—during sleep, while he’s out running, drinking beers with Ryan and Jamal, playing Schubert in an empty house.

In truth, the man is never far from the lad’s thoughts, always waiting for the right moment to make his presence known. Harry has both claimed and broken his heart, though the latter’s feeling fades with each passing day. Breathing becomes easier, even if Eggsy misses him more than he’s willing to admit.

Once or twice, he’s thought about phoning Harry, as he never got around to taking him out of his mobile. He wonders if the phone will still go to him or be disconnected now that his assignment is over.

While neither he nor Harry ever ends up contacting each other, it doesn’t stop Merlin from making an unexpected visit to Tremadog.

It happens on a balmy afternoon—typical of the maritime weather Wales gets—and Eggsy is returning from the studio. He’s listening to music stored on his mobile while trying to plan out the rest of his day. Now that he’s not spending most of his time sleeping, Eggsy tries to fill it with activity to keep himself from slipping. He’s coming up the sidewalk when he spots a Jaguar and a tall man leaning against it in the driveway of his uncle’s house like he’s James Bond.

Removing his earbuds, Eggsy finds himself face to face with Merlin, who perks up at the younger man’s approach. It’s been ages since they’ve seen each other, the last time being in a hospital room and in the first few moments, they look one another over. 

Merlin pockets his sunglasses as he takes a tentative step forward to meet Eggsy at the edge of the property. He looks rather dressed down, only wearing a black t-shirt with jeans and trainers, while his face sports a bit more than a five o’clock shadow. He straightens his posture and shatters the silence between them. “Looking good, Eggsy.”

“Feeling good, Merlin,” he replies, shifting his bag against his body. “Been wondering when one of you’d come around.”

The other man raises a brow but doesn’t say anything.

“This isn’t a courtesy call, right?” Eggsy says. He grips the strap of his bag tightly and motions towards the house. “Want to come inside?”

Merlin surveys the house before turning back to the young man. “Depends. Does it have a liquor cabinet?”

He can’t suppress the eye roll that follows the Scotsman’s question and pulls out his house keys. “Predictable,” Eggsy mutters. “Come on, you posh wanker.”

Once he’s stored his things in his bedroom, Eggsy pours Merlin and himself a finger of Scotch, neat, before sitting down at the kitchen table. The two of them drink in silence, finishing their glasses before Merlin says, “Pour us another.”

He does, though not without a smirk. “So what brings you to these parts?” Eggsy inquires as he slides Merlin’s glass back over to him. “Must be awfully important for you to venture all the way out to Tremadog and drink my uncle’s Scotch.”

“Could you at least let me start on my second drink before you ask the hard questions?” Merlin grumbles. He taps his fingers against the glass, huffing a sigh. “Charlie Hesketh’s dead.”

Eggsy sets the bottle down and averts his eyes to stare at the amber colored liquor. “Oh.”

“It was a suicide,” the other man continues after a moment. “The prosecuting barrister rejected a plea bargain that his legal team dreamed up in exchange for a lighter sentence. Shot himself, as it turns out.”

“Seems like something he’d do,” Eggsy comments flatly.

For a man who had been his first everything, Eggsy can’t even muster up an emotion—not even a pang of sadness—other than emptiness upon hearing of Charlie’s passing. Anger isn’t within his grasp either; those feelings have long passed.

To him, Charlie was already dead.

“When did it happen?” he asks.

Merlin sips on his drink, smacking his lips together before answering. “Two days ago.” He stares at the lad, brows knitted into a frown. “You seem rather calm about it.”

“Yeah? Expecting hysterics or summat?” Eggsy teases.

The other man shrugs. “Well, yes,” he says, “given your previous relationship with him, even if he was a bastard.”

“Sorry to disappoint then,” the lad tells him, raising his glass and drinking from it. The burn of Scotch travels all the way down his throat and into his stomach, warming him from within. “One less arsehole to worry about.”

Judging by the unconvinced expression on Merlin’s face, someone must have mentioned something about his reaction to Chester King’s death.

Either that or MI-6 picked it up on a satellite, bug, or whatever they have hiding in their arsenal.

“I’m fine,” Eggsy insists. He leans into his chair and hooks his arm over the back, shrugging. “And it’s not shock, either,” he adds.

Merlin narrows his eyes. “Have you gone all hard on me, Unwin?”

“No. I just…the Charlie I knew…” he begins to explain, finding it a struggle to come up with the right words. Eventually, they come as they always do. “He’s been gone for ages.”

The other man nods in understanding. “I know the feeling,” Merlin says, cryptically.

Eggsy supposes that in his line of work, the Scotsman has been his fair share of mates switch their loyalties. He doesn’t dare ask because it’s none of his business and, frankly, Eggsy is scared the conversation will lead to even more uncomfortable topics.

The two of them sit in silence for a while, deep in their own thoughts.

“I saw a pub on my way through town,” Merlin mentions, earning a curious stare from the lad. “Perhaps a meal wouldn’t go amidst?”

That’s how they end up at the Black Prince, secluding themselves in the very same booth that Rottweiler tried to pummel Eggsy in. Several of the regulars greet the lad as they walk in and give Merlin a particular stare, as it’s not the typical hangout for someone not local to Tremadog.

It’s no matter; they order several dishes to split between them along with a pint each. The pub is fairly quiet as it’s still early enough in the day and allows for conversation without the need to shout.

“Is this your usual hang out?” Merlin inquires after some small talk.

Eggsy shakes his head. “Not really. If I come down, it’s usually with my uncle and his mates,” he explains. “To watch whatever football match is on the telly.” He runs his fingers over the handle of his pint, tracing the curves as they cut through the condensation. “I’ve taken on some cello students.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize you wanted to teach,” the other man comments.

“Neither did I,” Eggsy admits with a grin. “It happened by accident. My old music teacher went on holiday and asked me to fill in. Since then, I’ve kept myself busy.”

Merlin hums in reply just as their food comes. It’s brought by a waitress that Eggsy vague recalls seeing when he has come down with Dean—a woman only several years older than him. She speaks to him, asking about his uncle and if he’ll be joining them later on.

The conversation goes over Merlin’s head as he observes Eggsy chatting with her. “I had forgotten that you spoke Welsh,” he comments once she’s gone.

“Sometimes I slip into it without meaning to,” the lad tells him, chuckling. “I remember I sent my best mate an email written entirely in it and she had not a clue as to what I was going on about.”

The corners of Merlin’s lips twitch into a smile. “So you’re teaching future concert cellists the tricks of the trade,” he says. “And what else have you been up to?”

They continue to talk. Eggsy tells him about his life in Tremadog while Merlin gives colorful anecdotes of the latest ongoings. Neither of them mentions the lad’s return to LSO or London, for that matter; he’s certain Merlin _knows_ it’s a sensitive topic and it’s best not to press it.

Conversation flows easily between them and halfway through, Eggsy realizes how much he’s missed the other man’s sarcastic wit. Merlin is ordering them another round when he finally gathers enough courage to broach the elephant in the room.

“How’s Harry been?” Eggsy asks once Merlin has turned back to him. He watches his friend glancing at his wristwatch and click the side. “Everything alright?”

Merlin looks up. “Only took you four hours to bring him up,” he states. His observation causes Eggsy’s cheeks to burn with embarrassment. Merlin shakes his head, sighing in sympathy. “Harry’s doing well despite the circumstances. Worried about you, of course.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says quietly. He stares at his beer to avoid having Merlin see his eyes bright with tears. Just the mere mention of Harry scourges up more heartache; even after all these months being apart from his ex-boyfriend still has an effect on him.

“He misses you like mad,” Merlin adds. “Never says it aloud, but I’ve known him since we were children.”

The younger man sniffles. “Sure about that? Might be pissed that his investment went to shit.”

A groan comes. “Eggsy,” Merlin grouses, setting his drink down upon the table. The glass clanks against the wood, causing the lad’s eyes to rise up and meet the other man’s stare. “What Harry did—becoming your benefactor—it was a secret that he didn’t even tell _me_ , his best mate since we were five years old and making mud pies in the garden. No one knew about it until that evening. Harry was fond of your father and regretted having a hand in his and your mum’s deaths. By providing for you in the financial sense…it was his way of looking out for you without being too close. He was terrified of Chester sending someone to finish what James started.”

“Why didn’t he tell me sooner?” Eggsy hisses across the table. A single, hot tear falls down his face and is promptly followed by more. “Before we started seeing each other…before I fell…”

He swallows, unable to say the words and looks away to wipe his cheeks.

“You have _every right_ to be angry with him,” Merlin assures. “If you want to curse his name until you’re blue in the face, so be it.” He reaches for Eggsy’s arm and rests his hand upon it. “But even I can see that you two are miserable without each other.”

Eggsy keeps a whimper at bay, nodding once he’s regained control over himself. “I’m still pissed at him,” he mumbles.

“Understandably so.” Merlin drinks from his pint until he’s drained the glass. “Honestly, I think Harry would wait until the end of time if that’s what it took for you to forgive him.”

He chuckles upon hearing this. “You really think so?”

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

 

* * *

 

Nearly a year passes before Eggsy makes the decision to return to London.

It’s something he deliberates on for some time and considers moving to the Continent for a bit. Vienna, Rome, Madrid—the world is his oyster even without Kingsman’s intervention. Many orchestras are vying for Eggsy to join them, including several in the States. The offers are tempting, but in the end, it’s Gazelle who brings him back to LSO. Excitement bubbles through his veins when he signs the new contract, reminding Eggsy of the first time he did this.

Then begins the move. Unlike the first time, he does it on his own and without Harry’s money. Eggsy has a sizeable savings account squirreled away, some of which he uses for new purchases to place inside of the flat he’s renting from Roxy’s parents. It’s closer to the Barbican and considerably older than his previous home, though just as luxurious. All of the items that were quietly placed in storage are brought over and slowly Eggsy builds a new living space for himself.

Dean accompanies him to London and helps him settle in when they aren’t enjoying the sights. It’s been ages since his uncle has been back in the city—the last time being Eggsy’s university graduation. He likes that he can share the experience with Dean, as they’ve made great strides in mending their relationship. It’s nowhere close to perfect and probably will never be, but Eggsy finds himself misty-eyed when he hugs his uncle goodbye on the train platform.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks,” Dean assures, giving his nephew a tight squeeze before letting go. He has a proud smile on his face. “Just in time for your first show.”

Eggsy nods. “Yeah, I know,” he says, sniffling. “It will be weird inside of the flat without you making a racket, is all.”

“Makin’ a racket!” his uncle grouses, rolling his eyes. “Cheeky bugger.” Another hug comes with Dean ruffling Eggsy’s hair as he promises to call once he returns home.

Practices, rehearsals, and meetings resume several days later, sweeping Eggsy back into the tide of orchestra life. The vigor he had when he first joined LSO returns and shows in everything he does. Knowing the truth—no matter how painful its revelation had been—brings a sense of peace to Eggsy.

Only one thing weighs upon him when he’s alone at night and London is still buzzing outside of his bedroom window.

_Harry Hart._

A man whose memory dances on the fringes, like twilight or trying to catch smoke with one’s bare hands. He’s always on Eggsy’s mind even when he isn’t conscious of it; always waiting patiently like Merlin promised. When Eggsy has a break he goes to the National Gallery, finding himself torn between the sheer panic of running into Harry or the elation upon seeing his dimpled grin.

He knows he could call him, perhaps invite him out for coffee or scream at him until his throat aches. Just scrolling passed Harry’s number on Eggsy’s mobile makes his heart clench and flutter at the same time.

Instead, Eggsy spends weeks at the National Gallery in hopes of seeing a familiar man in a bespoke suit roaming the halls.

It never happens and he never calls.

 

* * *

 

He becomes better friends with Merlin now that he’s back in London.

As it turns out, he doesn’t live far from Eggsy’s flat and they often go on morning runs when time allows. There isn’t a lot of pretenses when it comes to the other man; Merlin is an open book. He tells Eggsy of how he came to MI-6—as much as he’s allowed to divulge—and some hilarious anecdotes about Harry.

Merlin can tell Eggsy misses him, though he never presses the issue. It’s as if he understands that healing varies from person to person and the depths of the betrayal the lad experienced runs deep. While Eggsy has made strides in his recovery, there are still pieces of him in need of gentle handling.

“He kept your old flat, you know,” Merlin says over brunch one late morning. He meets Eggsy’s surprised stare with a raised brow. Shrugging, he goes about cutting into his meal. “Don’t give me that look like you’re all shocked, Unwin.”

Setting down his silverware, Eggsy scoffs. “Because I _am_!” he snaps. “What the hell is he thinking? Keeping a place like that when he could let it out to someone who will actually use it!”

“Perhaps,” the other man begins to suggest, “he’s hoping you’ll move back in.”

“No thanks,” Eggsy tells him, sounding slightly offended that Merlin would suggest a thing. “If he was my sugar daddy _and_ boyfriend, that would be way too weird.”

Merlin looks up, intrigued. “Boyfriend, hrm?”

“ _Ex_ -boyfriend,” Eggsy quickly corrects as his cheeks turn a brilliant shade of scarlet. He traces his fingernail around the delicate details of his fork, swallowing uncomfortably before speaking once more. “I was thinking of inviting him to next week’s Cinema series.”

The corners of Merlin’s mouth are probably quirking in a knowing smile. “Oh?” he says. “I think he might enjoy that.”

“I thought so, too.” Eggsy glances at his friend, unsurprised to find him grinning. “The thing is…I don’t have his address, not that you can really trust the post.”

“I could see how that would be a problem,” Merlin comments as the lad reaches towards his jacket and removes an envelope from a pocket.

Eggsy slides the LSO ticket packet across the table, leaving it within Merlin’s grasp. “Could you be sure he gets it?” he asks, suddenly aware of how much he’s putting on the line. It’s an olive branch and a very public one at that.  

“I will,” his friend assures, relieving the hammering of Eggsy’s heart against his chest.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, Eggsy realizes how purposeful it had been to invite Harry to the cinema series.

A year ago, give or take a few days, it was the very same concert in which they began their descent towards falling in love. A single kiss ruptured the walls Eggsy built around him, allowing them to slowly crumble down with Harry’s gentle urging.

Harry, who offered him the world before they knew each other and kept him from harm’s way all of those years ago. The very same man who wished to protect Eggsy at all costs and hide the darkest secrets from him at the cost of their relationship.

A man whose memory has always kept him going, inching closer to salvation even when hundreds of miles separated them.

Time has mended Eggsy’s heart as much as it can. He’s more whole than broken, but not entirely without Harry in his life. The man asked for forgiveness and has waited for Eggsy ever since. Even when he fled back to Wales, Harry waited.

Now Eggsy stands in front of his station, properly done up and wearing a tuxedo. His nerves are wired, bouncing between being anxious and excited and all of the emotions in between. As he follows Gazelle out to the pit and the audience is watching them, Eggsy can only think of Harry who is somewhere in the sea of people.

The theater is packed and the stares of thousands of pairs of eyes are on him as he plays his solos, putting everything he has into each other as if they are Eggsy’s private love letter to the man who has stolen his heart.

It’s only Harry that has captured Eggsy’s attention; the rest of the audience is just white noise. Even under their thunderous applause, once the show has come to a close, he imagines Harry watching him from his seat or perhaps already heading backstage, as his name has been put on the list.

He finds Harry at his station once he’s left the pit, standing there while he nervously runs his fingers over Eggsy’s bag as if he’s in disbelief that the lad is truly there. In the reflection from the mirror, Harry is just as beautiful as the last time Eggsy saw him. He wears the proper orchestra attire under his coat.

Harry must notice him out of his peripheral for he looks up, revealing his lovely eyes that are no longer hidden by his glasses and free for the world to envy as he stares at Eggsy for several long moments. He turns around, offering a dimpled smile even as Eggsy’s colleagues filter in.

It doesn’t matter that every last one of them sees him rushing over and throwing his arms around Harry, pulling him into a grateful embrace. Eggsy threads his fingers through the other man’s hair, bringing their lips together so he can taste the richness of Harry’s mouth upon his tongue.

All of the insurmountable apologies and declarations are said in that kiss; every single emotional wound is fully healed and every bad memory banished.

They pull apart to breathe as tears cascade down their faces. Harry runs his thumbs over Eggsy’s cheeks, kissing each swollen drop away until all the lad can feel is the sensation of the other man’s lips on his face.

“You’re here,” Eggsy whispers, closing his eyes.

“I am,” Harry says, the words like a benediction to Eggsy’s ears. He cups the lad’s jaw, caressing it. “I am, my darling.”

Eggsy sees no shadow of another parting from him.


End file.
